KUN0IS  HISTORICAL  SI" 


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ET  CETERA 


Copyright  1924 

PASCAL  COVICI   ■  Publisher 

Chicago 


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: 


Edited  by 
VINCENT  STARRETT 


Contents 


Page 

ALDINGTON,  RICHARD— A  Playntyve  Ballade     .     .  213 

ANONYMOUS— A  Ballade  of  a  Book  of  Hours     .     .  1 

Aucassin   and   Nicolette 157 

BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN— Stanzas 173 

CRACKANTHORPE,  HUBERT— A  Fellside  Tragedy  71 

CRANE,   STEPHEN— At  The  Pit   Door 31 

The  Great  Boer  Trek     ....  39 

DELL,    FLOYD— Joys 107 

DOWSON,  ERNEST— The  Passing  of  Tennyson     .     .  27 

DUNSANY,  LORD— A  Request 141 

ELDRIDGE,  PAUL— Emperor  of  Micamaca  ....  177 

HEARN,  LAFCADIO— Chemise  of  Margarita  Pareja  .  115 

HERGESHEIMER,  JOSEPH— The  Little  Kanaka  .     .  135 

HEWLETT,  MAURICE— The  London  That  Is  Far  Off  149 

HOUSMAN,  LAURENCE— Mr.   Enoch  Jones     ...  83 

Mrs.  Enoch  Jones     ...  85 

O'HARA,  JOHN  MYERS— New  Songs  of  Sapho     .     .  65 


Page 

IMAGE,   SELWYN— To   L 89 

JOHNSON,  LIONEL— To  R.  L.  S 169 

KIPLING,  RUDYARD— A  Ballade  of  Photographs     .  243 

LANG,  ANDREW— A  Chortle Ill 

LONG,   HANIEL— Antonia   and    Dionigi 217 

LYONS,  A.  NEIL— The  Drum 145 

MACHEN,  ARTHUR— English  and  Irish 93 

My  Murderer 97 

MEYRINK,  GUSTAV— The  Devils'  Grindstone  ...  163 

MIDDLETON,  RICHARD— The  District  Visitor    .     .  5 

The  Madness  of  Spring  .  19 

MOORE,  GEORGE— Reply  to  an  Invitation     ....  199 

McCULLOUGH,  HENRY— Precursors 205 

RUSSELL,  W.  CLARK— Jack  and  Jill 103 

SALTUS,  EDGAR— The  Feast 61 

STREET,  JULIAN— To  An  Autograph  Collector     .     .  239 

UNDERWOOD,  WILBUR— Translations: 

Pierrot 123 

Woman  and  Cat 125 

Shells 127 

To  Death 129 

The  Bow 131 

VAN  VECHTEN,  CARL— Edgar  Saltus— A  Postscript  229 

WHITMAN,  WALT— Fragments 193 

Broadway  1861 195 


Foreword 


VER  a  great  many  years  of  en- 
thusiastic "collecting,"  I  have  filled 
many  scrap  books  and  not  a  few 
closets  with  such  excerpts  from 
books  and  journals,  old  and  new, 
as  have  pleased  my  catholic  fancy. 
The  often  permanent  loss  of  much  that  is  fine  and 
admirable  in  literature  because  its  authors,  through 
death,  or  modesty,  or  lack  of  opportunity,  have  neg- 
lected to  collect  it  within  covers,  always  has  seemed 
to  me  deplorable  on  a  number  of  counts;  and  so, 
entirely  for  my  own  pleasure  and  as  a  side  issue  in 
the  larger  enterprise  of  book  collecting,  I  have  treas- 
ured such  lost  or  forgotten  pieces  as  have  come  my 
way  until  something  like  chaos  in  my  library  has 
been  the  result. 

For  the  most  part,  naturally,  my  salvaging  has 
concerned  itself  with  the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  my 
larger  enthusiasms;   but  many   pleasant  tales  and 


poems  and  sketches  by  less  sonorous  reputations 
also  have  gone  to  the  making  of  my  literary  museum 
— bits  that  I  have  believed  worthy  of  longer  and 
more  frequent  reading  than  ordinarily  is  the  for- 
tune of  contributions  to  the  periodical  press.  Hence, 
in  the  present  selection  from  my  voluminous  scrap 
books,  the  reader  will  find  strange  bookfellows; 
beside  Kipling  and  Edgar  Saltus,  Paul  Eldridge  and 
Haniel  Long;  between  Hearn  and  Machen  and  Dun- 
sany  and  Hergesheimer,  Henry  McCullough  and 
Julian  Street;  and,  cheek  by  jowl,  Stephen  Crane 
and  Gustav  Meyrink. 

Of  the  first  importance,  I  believe,  are  such 
uncollected  masterpieces  as  Middleton's  "The  Dis- 
trict Visitor"  and  Hearn's  "Margarita  Pareja," 
while  the  uncollected  sketches  of  Stephen  Crane  and 
the  poems  of  Dowson,  Wilbur  Underwood,  Lord 
Dunsany,  Saltus,  Neil  Lyons  and  Lionel  Johnson 
are  items  of  great  attractiveness  to  the  collecting 
fraternity.  Indeed,  among  the  esteemed  writers  of 
our  day  there  are  few  unrepresented  by  some  brief, 
forgotten  bit  of  prose  or  verse.  The  volume  is,  I 
believe,  quite  honestly,  what  I  have  endeavored  to 
make  it — an  authentic  "first  edition"  of  half  the 
"collected"  men  of  contemporaneous  letters;  and  in 
addition  it  is  a  fascinating  omnium-gatherum  for 
the  mere  reader  who  cares  no  more  for  a  "first"  than 
for  a  twenty-first  edition.  Finally,  in  the  words  of 
the  jolly  old  preface- writer  whose  name  in  other 


generations  was  legion,  if  lovers  of  books  shall  find 
in  this  book  half  the  happiness  this  book-lover  put 
into  the  making  of  it — why,  then,  "I  shall  not  have 
labored  in  vain." 

VINCENT  STARRETT. 


ET  CETERA 


oA  Ballade  of  a  Book 
of  Hours 


AS  it  some  sad-eyed  Florentine 

Within  his  cloistered  cell  of  yore 
Who  lit  this  painted  page  of  thine 

With  treasures  from  his  ancient  lore, 
And  kneeling  in  the  twilight  bore 
The  burden  of  his  Saviour's  pain, 
And  even  with  the  sunrise  saw 
The  coming  of  his  Lord  again? 

And  when  he  found  the  rest  he  sought, 

The  shadows  that  he  hungered  for, 
Perchance  a  lady  of  the  Court 

Within  her  jeweled  bosom  wore 
His  books  among  her  billets,  or 

Beneath  her  scented  pillow  lain, 

Who  daily  in  her  life  foreswore 
The  coming  of  his  Lord  again. 

And  now  beneath  another  sky, 

Amid  the  city's  ceaseless  roar 
Unheeded  but  for  such  as  I, 

You  wait  upon  a  shelf  before 

A  dark  and  dusty  bookshop's  door, 
And  long  for  loving  hands  in  vain, 

As  he  in  that  dim  corridor, 
The  coming  of  his  Lord  again. 

ENVOI 

Book,  as  my  lady's  monitor, 

You  shall  forget  the  world's  disdain, 
So  had  your  master  sighed  no  more 

The  coming  of  his  Lord  again. 

— Anonymous. 

['] 


Richard  Middleton 

The  District  Visitor 
The  Madness  of  Spring 


The  cDistricl<:Visitor 


IGHT.  [Philip  sits  writing  at  a  little 
table  facing  the  audience.  As  he 
writes  he  talks  aloud,  because  he  is 
tipsy  with  hunger.] 

Philip:    A  new  form  of  art,  if 

only  I  could  remember  the  words  of 

the  right  color!    Splendid  and  torch  and  power,  all 

good  red  words.     Mystery  is  yellow,  bitterness  is 

grey,   eternity   is  dead  black.     I   want  some   blue 

words  to  mix  with  mystery   for  the  grass.    Blue 

words,    blue    words,    Heaven    help    the    idiot    who 

compiled  this  dictionary!     Dorothy! 

[Dorothy  is  sitting  in  a  deep  armchair  at  the  back  of 

the    stage    almost   hidden    from    the   audience. 

When   he   calls   she   raises   her   head   with   an 

effort.] 

Dorothy:  Yes,  dear. 
Philip:  What  are  you  thinking  of? 
Dorothy :  The  rent's  not  paid  and  the  landlord — 
Philip :  Shylock,  a  Jew. 
Dorothy:   Will  turn  us  into  the  street. 
Philip  [with  a  groan] :     Only  blue  by  associa- 

t5i 


tion.  Street  and  rent  are  both  red,  landlord  seems 
to  me  to  be  salmon-pink.  Can't  you  remember  any 
blue  words,  darling? 

Dorothy  [pitifully] :  Are  you  very  hungry, 
Philip? 

Philip:   So,  so.   I'm  afraid  it's  hurting  you. 

Dorothy:  Not  much.  Only  the  waiting  for 
something  to  happen 

Philip :  Rich  or  poor,  we're  all  waiting  for  some- 
thing to  happen,  and  probably  if  we  only  knew  it's 
happening  now.  Now,  if  some  moonstruck  editor 
would  send  me  a  cheque 

Dorothy:  I'm  afraid  editors  have  very  thick 
heads. 

Philip :  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  myself. 

Dorothy:  And  the  moon  can't  get  through  to 
their  brains. 

Philip:  Moon  is  a  blue  word,  so  a  mysterious 
moon  should  be  green.  There's  something  in 
that 

Dorothy:  If  the  landlord  turns  us  out  we 
shan't   be   able   to   wait    any   longer. 

Philip  [writing] :  Bearing  splendid  torches 
through  a  mysterious  moon  till  our  bitterness 
merged  into  eternity.  A  pillar-box  near  a  green 
field  at  nightfall.     I  should  like  to  see  the  damned 

critics  appreciate  the  subtlety  of  that Two 

definite  and  distinct  interpretations  to  one  sentence. 

Dorothy :  If  the  landlord  turns  us  into  the  street. 

t6] 


Philip  [musingly] :  A  peeled  salmon  in  a  sea 
of  blood. 

Dorothy   [revolted]:     Philip: 

Philip :  Yes,  dear. 

Dorothy:  You  frighten  me  when  you  talk  like 
that. 

Philip:  I'm  sorry.  I  only  wanted  to  frighten 
myself.    I  don't  want  to  talk  about  beefsteaks. 

Dorothy:  Poor  Philip! 

Philip :  Bloody  ones  with  gristle.  That's  Kipling. 
I  can't  forget  these  things. 

Dorothy:  I  think  that  to-morrow  if  nothing 
happens — 

Philip:   Well? 

Dorothy:    Something  will  happen. 

Philip:  No.  To-morrow  morning  I'll  sell  some 
of  the  furniture. 

Dorothy :  But  it  belongs  to  the  landlord. 

Philip:  I  think  sometimes  that  we  belong  to  the 
landlord.  We'll  tell  Shylock  we've  eaten  his  arm- 
chairs. A  sofa  on  toast  with  little  mushrooms  and 
chopped  parsley. 

Dorothy :  I  think  I  heard  a  knock. 

Philip:  It's  your  fancy  knocking  against  the 
walls  of  your  head  because  it  cannot  sleep. 

Dorothy:   No,  I'm  sure  I  heard  a  knock. 

Philip  [rising] :  Perhaps  it's  the  postman  with 
a  cheque. 


Dorothy:  It's  much  too  late  for  the  postman. 
It  must  be  the  landlord  come  for  the  rent. 

Philip  [sitting  down  again:]  Perhaps  he  will 
break  his  neck  on  his  damned  stairs.  Then  we  can 
pick  his  pockets. 

Dorothy:  It  will  make  him  angry  if  we  don't 
go  down. 

Philip:  He  will  forget  that  anger  when  he 
finds  that  we  can't  pay  him. 

Dorothy :  I  can  hear  his  feet  on  the  stairs. 

Philip:     If  I  am  strong  enough  I  will  throw 
him  out  of  the  window. 
[There   is  a   knock  at  the  door,   and  the   District 

Visitor  enters  without  waiting  for  an  answer. 

He  looks  like  a  Nonconformist  parson,  carries 

a    black    bag    and   wears    button    boots,    black 

suede  gloves  too  long  in  the  fingers. 

D.  V.:     Mr.  Philip  Oldcastle? 

Philip:  That  is  my  name.  What  do  you  want? 
I  suppose  you  have  come  from  the  landlord. 

D.  V.:  No;  at  least,  not  exactly.  It's  rather  an 
unusual  case.  You  see,  Mr.  Oldcastle,  my  name  is 
Death. 

Philip:  I  do  not  think  that  very  likely. 

D.  V.  [affronted] :     And  why,  sir? 

Philip:  Because  you  are  reputed  never  to  come 
when  you  are  wanted. 

D.  V.  [resting  his  bag  on  a  chair] :  I  am  glad  to 
hear  that  for  once  I  am  welcome.    My  experience  is 

[»] 


that,  though  people  often  call  for  me,  they  are 
always  irritated  when  I  arrive. 

Dorothy  [politely] :  Your  experience  must  be 
a  wide  one,  Mr.  Death. 

D.  V. :  I'm  afraid  I  may  have  given  you  a  wrong 
impression.  I  should  have  made  it  clear  that  I  am 
merely  Death's  representative  for  the  Parliamentary 
Division  of  Battersea. 

Dorothy  [disappointed]  :     Oh !     I  see. 

Philip :  But  granting  your  bona  fides,  I  still  find 
this  personal  visit  a  little  extraordinary.  You  have 
come  for  us? 

D.  V. :  I  have  come  for  one  of  you. 

Dorothy  and  Philip:  We  refuse  to  be  sepa- 
rated ! 

D.  V. :  I'm  very  sorry ;  these  awkward  situations 
are  only  too  common.  But  the  notice  is  only  made 
out  for  one. 

Philip:  And  for  which  of  us,  pray? 

D.  V.  [fumbling  in  his  black  bag,  and  pulling 
out  a  document] :  That  is  just  the  difficulty  under 
which  I  am  laboring.  You  see,  the  name  is  quite 
clear:  Philip  Oldcastle.  But  an  unfortunate  blot 
renders  it  impossible  for  me  to  say  whether  the 
order  is  made  out  for  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Philip  Oldcastle. 
In  my  experience  the  accident  is  unique. 

Philip:  It  seems  to  me  to  be  a  piece  of  abom- 
inable carelessness. 

D.  V. :  [nervously] :   I  had  hoped  that  the  con- 


dition  of  health  of  one  of  you  would  have  enabled 
me  to  venture — 

Philip:  In  fact,  you  were  going  to  chance  your 
arm. 

D.  V. :  As  far  as  I  comprehend  the  significance 
of  that  popular  phrase,  I  was. 

Philip:    You  seem  to  me  to  be  a  precious  rascal. 

Dorothy  [interposing] :  Philip,  you  have  not 
offered     .     .     .     Death  a  chair. 

D.  V.  [waving  the  suggestion  aside] :  I  should 
be  sorry  to  cause  any  unnecessary  unpleasantness. 

Philip:    It  will  take  all  your  time  to  do  that. 

D.  V. :  But  I  am  prepared  to  meet  you  in  a  rea- 
sonable spirit. 

Philip:  Our  name  is  Reason.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Philip   Reason. 

D.  V.:  Ha!  Ha!  Very  good,  very  good,  indeed! 
Now  I  thought  perhaps  an  appeal  to  chance.     .     .     . 

Philip:    You  propose  that  we  should  toss  for  it? 

D.  V. :    The — er — spin  of  a  coin.     .     .     . 

Philip:     We  haven't  got  one. 

D.  V.  [producing  half-a-crown] :  I  had  fore- 
seen the  possibility. 

Philip :    Very  well,  we'll  toss  you  double  or  quits. 

D.  V. :    I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  understand. 

Philip:  You  can  have  both  of  us  or  none;  it's 
simple  enough. 

D.  V.  [angrily] :  You  must  see  that  what  you 
suggest  is  quite  impossible. 

[10] 


Philip:    Then  you  will  have  to  lump  it. 

D.  V.  [pleadingly]  :  You  are  making  it  very 
hard  for  me. 

Philip :  Your  professional  reputation  is  a  matter 
of  complete  indifference  to  me.  Your  personality  I 
find  objectionable. 

Dorothy :    Philip ! 

Philip  [waxing  eloquent] :  I  don't  like  your 
seedy  whiskers,  or  your  button  boots,  or  your  beastly 
gloves,  or  your  nasty  little  black  bag. 

D.  V.:    You  are  grossly  personal,  sir. 

Philip:  You  have  the  air  of  a  fraudulent  com- 
mercial traveller! 

D.  V. :    I  warn  you — 

Philip:    A  hypocritical  undertaker's  man! 

D.  V. :    I  warn  you — 

Philip :    An  incompetent  baby-stealer ! 

D.  V.:    You  will  be  sorry  presently  for  this! 

Philip:  My  dear  idiot,  it's  clear  to  me  that  you 
are  helpless.  If  you  make  a  mistake  you  will  lose 
your  job.  That  order's  not  worth  the  paper  it's 
written  on. 

D.  V.  [pulling  out  a  Swan  fountain-pen] :  But 
it  is  within  my  power  to  alter  it. 

Dorothy  [in  alarm] :  Oh,  Philip,  be  careful  what 
you  say! 

Philip:  My  dear,  he  doesn't  know  which  name 
to  put.  In  any  case  we  can  report  the  circumstances 
to  head  office  and  get  him  the  sack. 


D.  V.  [writing]  :  Very  well,  you  will  realize 
the  extent  of  my  powers.  You  see,  I  have  made  it 
Mister. 

Dorothy:  Oh,  Philip,  you  mustn't  go  without 
me. 

Philip :  If  I  do  it  won't  be  for  long.  Mr.  Death 
will  be  looking  for  a  new  berth  presently. 

D.  V.  [triumphantly] :  That's  where  you're  mis- 
taken. Furthermore,  I  have  endorsed  it  "Gone;  left 
no  address." 

Philip :    Well,  and  what  of  it? 

D.  V. :  I  will  return  the  order  so  marked  to  the 
authorities,  and  your  name  will  be  crossed  off  the 
register.  You  have  found  life  pleasant,  haven't  you, 
Mr.  Oldcastle?  Well,  you'll  have  to  make  the  best 
of  it,  for  now — 

Philip:    Goon. 

D.  V. :    You're  immortal ! 
[To  his  astonishment  both  Philip  and  Dorothy  burst 

into  extravagant  laughter,  rendered  almost  hys- 
terical by  starvation.] 

Philip  [rolling  on  his  chair  and  dabbing  his  face 
with  his  handkerchief]  Good  Lord,  what  a  child  the 
man  is.  An  innocent,  sucking  babe.  And  did  I  call 
him  nasty  names,  did  I?   Oh! 

D.  V.  [sullenly] :     I  don't  understand. 

Philip:  Of  course  you  don't!  Why  should  you? 
The  little  child  that  lightly  draws  its  breath     .     .     . 

D.  V.:    If  this  is  a  madhouse     .     .     . 

[12] 


Philip  [pulling  himself  together] :  No,  infant. 
But  it  is  the  one  house  in  Battersea  whose  inmates 
are  absolutely  convinced  of  their  immortality. 

D.  V.  [mystified] :  And  yet  you  welcomed  me 
just  now. 

Philip:  Of  course  we  did,  because  our  environ- 
ment is  momentarily  unpleasant.  To  our  minds  you 
represent  a  shaking  of  the  dice-box,  a  cutting  of  the 
pack.  But  we  know  that  you  alone  are  mortal,  evan- 
escent— what  shall  I  say?  Why,  man,  you  are  as 
transitory  as  the  measles! 

D.  V.:  But  now  you  will  have  to  endure  your 
environment. 

Philip:  I  doubt  it.  I  think  it  unlikely  that  the 
laws  that  govern  this  suburb  will  be  overthrown 
to  save  your  face.  If  I  lie  down  in  front  of  a 
steamroller,  gravity  will  change  my  environment. 
Are  you  stronger  than  gravity?  It  has  nailed  your 
feet  to  this  floor! 

D.  V.:  You  would  have  me  cut  a  sorry  figure 
in  the  world. 

Philip:  You  must  not  make  me  alone  re- 
sponsible. Christianty  grants  you  power  over  the 
worthless  sediment  of  our  entities.  The  ignorant 
savage,  burying  his  parents  with  a  box  of  sardines  by 
their  side,  denies  you  even  that.  It  is  possible  to 
doubt  your  existence;  it  is  impossible  to  find  you 
important.     And  the  more  I  consider  the  circum- 

[13] 


stances  the  clearer  it  becomes  to  me  that  you  are 
here  to  do  our  bidding. 

D.  V.  [evasively] :  I  hope  I  can  see  a  joke  even 
when  it  is  at  my  expense. 

Philip:  If  you  weren't  so  sordidly  ugly.  You 
weren't  always  like  that,  you  know. 

D.  V.:    Really,  Mr.  Oldcastle. 

Philip:  You  used  to  ride  in  armour  on  a  fiery 
horse  and  slay  with  a  flaming  sword.  Now,  didn't 
you? 

D.  V.:  Upon  my  word  I  never  did.  I  have 
always  been  just  the  same. 

Philip:  Ah,  I  thought  as  much.  Death,  you're 
a  fraud! 

D.  V. :    I  solemnly  declare — 

Philip:  Shut  up,  and  listen  while  I  make  my 
phrases.  You're  a  fraud  because  you  are  not  beauti- 
ful. You're  a  fraud  because  you  are  not  logical. 
How  can  you  pretend  to  finish  the  life  of  a  man  like 
me,  with  all  my  fine  hopes  and  discovered  dreams? 
^Esthetic  considerations  alone  would  convince  me  of 
my  immortality  when  confronted  by  such  a  death  as 
you.  It  is  impossible  that  I  have  fared  so  far  to  be 
strangled  by  a  bandit  with  the  manners  of  a  jobbing 
dentist? 

D.  V. :  This  regrettable  violence  of  tone     .     .     . 

Philip:  The  jargon!  The  jargon!  Oh,  I  be- 
lieve you  now  when  you  say  that  your  name  is  Death. 
I  have  seen  your  sordid  pageants  in  the  street,  your 

[14] 


fat  black  horses,  your  bobbing  feathers,  your  starved 
and  shivering  footmen  conducting  a  yellow  box  in  a 
showcase  to  a  field  covered  with  monstrous  wedding- 
cake  ornaments,  and  I  have  asked  myself  who  this 
Death  could  be,  that  was  satisfied  with  so  poor  a 
ritual. 

D.  V. :    My  dear  sir! 

Philip:  You  make  us  ridiculous  where,  if  you 
had  any  real  significance,  you  would  make  us  noble. 
You  come  slinking  in  behind  the  doctor  and  afflict  a 
man  with  an  absurd  disease  like  the  mumps.  We 
cover  his  eyes  with  pennies  and  tie  up  his  jaw,  and 
hide  him  away  so  that  our  children  may  retain  a 
decent  pride  in  human  nature.  But  we  know  that  it 
is  not  the  end.  The  thing's  incredible — a  wood-louse 
would  command  a  braver  destiny.     As  for  a  poet! 

D.  V.:    A  poet! 

Philip :  I  tell  you,  man,  it  will  take  a  god  to  de- 
stroy me,  and  he  will  destroy  me  as  he  made  me,  with 
sweat  and  tears  and  anguish  of  heart.  Even  then  I 
shall  leave  my  inspiration,  that  part  of  me  which  lies 
beyond  his  power  of  creation,  like  a  stain  of  blood  on 
his  murderous  hands. 

D.  V.:  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  a  poet. 
I  should  have  been  more  careful. 

Philip :  You  are  fit  to  rock  tired  babies  to  sleep, 
and  as  far  as  I  can  see  you  are  fit  for  nothing  else. 
For  the  rest,  I  know  that  you  are  less,  and  not  more 
than  man.     If  I  choose  I  can  throw  you  out  of  the 

t15] 


window,  and  there  will  be  no  more  deaths  in  Batter- 
sea.    But  you  may  be  useful  to  me. 

D.  V.  [limply] :  Anything  I  can  do,  I'm 
sure     .     .     . 

Philip :  My  wife  and  I  are  not  satisfied  with  our 
apartments  here  in  life.  The  skies  are  overcast,  the 
beds  are  hard,  and  the  food  is  insufficient  and  badly 
served.  We  want  a  change.  We  want  a  better  place 
to  live  in,  a  place  with  blue  skies,  where  the  neces- 
saries of  life  are  cheaper.  I  do  not  ask  you  whether 
it  lies  within  your  power  to  give  us  this,  because  I 
am  certain  that  you  do  not  know.  All  I  require  of 
you  is  that  you  should  come  when  we  call  you. 

D.  V. :    I  will  come. 

Philip :  Very  well,  I  don't  think  there's  anything 
more  this  evening  to  keep  you  from  your  business. 

D.  V.:  One  moment,  Mr.  Oldcastle.  I'm  sorry 
our  interview  has  been  marred  by  a  little  unpleasant- 
ness, but  I  should  like  to  say  that  I  shall  not  forget 
your  noble  and  inspiring  remarks.  Such  as  I  am, 
man  has  made  me,  but  if  there  were  more  men  like 
you  to  cheer  me  on  to  the  attainment  of  some  ideal,  I 
am  sure  I  should  play  my  part  with  a  better  grace. 
See  now,  I  have  torn  up  the  order.  I  give  you  and 
your  good  lady  carte  blanche  to  die  when  you 
please.     Good-night,  sir;  good-night,  madam. 

Philip :    Good-night. 

Dorothy:  Do  be  careful;  the  stairs  are  so 
dangerous.       [Exit  D.  V.] 

[16] 


Philip:  There,  he's  gone.  Poor,  little,  well- 
meaning  chap.  It's  a  pathetic  thing  to  be  the  only 
mortal  in  a  world  of  immortals. 

Dorothy:  I  think  you  were  rather  hard  on  him, 
Philip.    After  all,  he  has  his  qualities. 

Philip:    Qualities? 

Dorothy:  I  don't  know.  It  has  always  seemed 
to  me  that  he  is  kind  to  children.  There  are  other 
things,  too;  but  I  can't  think  of  them  now,  I'm  so 
hungry. 

Philip:  I,  too,  darling.  We  come  back  to  that, 
don't  we? 

Dorothy :  I'm  tired  of  waiting  for  something  to 
happen.    I  want  to  sleep  and  forget  all  about  it. 

Philip:  All  right.  Let's  lie  down  side  by  side 
on  the  sofa.  I'll  turn  the  gas  on,  and  we'll  have  a 
good  night's  rest. 

Dorothy:    The  gas? 

Philip:    Yes.    We'll  have  our  friend  back.    It's 
easy  for  us  to  die,  because  we  know  that  we  are  im- 
mortal.   What  do  we  risk? 
[He  turns  the  gas  out  and  on  again.     .     .     .     The 

stage  is  quite  dark.] 

Philip:  There.  That  ought  to  alter  things  a 
bit.     Where  are  you,  old  girl? 

Dorothy:    Here,  Philip. 

Philip:  Ah,  that's  better,  side  by  side,  light 
out  of  the  darkness. 

[17] 


Dorothy:     When   the   landlord   comes   in   the 
morning — 

Philip:     He  will  turn  us  into  the  street.     Yes. 
But  we  shall  not  be  here. 
Dorothy :    I  wonder ! 
Philip :    So  do  I ;  that  has  always  been  my  pride. 

[A  pause.] 
Philip:    Let  me  move  my  arm,  dear,  it's  getting 
cramped. 

Dorothy:    Poor  old  Philip.    Is  it  better  now? 
Philip:    I  can  hear  the  beating  of  your  heart. 
Dorothy:    And  I  the  singing  of  yours. 
Philip  and  Dorothy:     Good-night  love! 

[A  long  pause.] 
Dorothy:    Good  gracious,  Philip,  what  a  strong 
smell  of  gas.    Oh !  I  forgot — 

[Philip  chuckles  aloud  in  the  dark.] 
CURTAIN. 


[18] 


The  ^Madness  of 
Spring 


^F  WE  ACCEPT  Johnson's  definition  of  mad- 
ness as  a  perturbation  of  the  faculties,  we 
must  acknowledge  that  there  is  more  than  a 
conventional  association  between  madness 
and  the  earlier  months  of  the  year.  While 
the  buds  are  breaking,  the  faculties  of  all  of 
us  are  perturbed  with  a  vengeance,  and  never 
a  green  leaf  unrolls  beneath  the  sky  but  one 
of  us  tramples  under  foot  the  laws  he  has 
made  for  the  guidance  of  his  life.  Some- 
times our  mania  is  clear  to  every  one,  some- 
times we  are  the  most  cunning  of  madmen, 
only  wearing  the  straws  in  solitude,  and  duly  imi- 
tating the  lives  of  our  grandfathers  before  our  sus- 
picious neighbors.  But,  however  this  may  be,  we 
are  all  mad  in  the  spring  and  though  their  per- 
turbations vary  as  widely  as  the  new  leaves,  our 
faculties  sing  drunken  songs  together  along  the 
wind-swept  streets  of  the  world. 

[19] 


This  is  a  period  when  it  is  very  good  to  be 
young,  and  so  I  willingly  sympathize  with  the  mad- 
ness of  my  friend  Florizel,  who  drives  about  Lon- 
don looking  for  his  lost  youth  in  a  taximeter  filled 
with  children  and  chocolates.  There  are  moments, 
he  tells  me  when  this  annual  search  seems  to  be 
crowned  with  success.  Perhaps  for  an  hour  he  re- 
covers the  forgotten  ignorance  of  his  early  years; 
the  children  treat  him  with  the  genial  rudeness  of 
comradeship;  he  is  patronised  by  ticket-collectors 
and  policemen.  But  he  goes  home  an  old  man.  No 
less  do  I  sympathise  with  the  youthful  and  agree- 
able Hamlet,  who  staggers  along  the  Charing  Cross 
Road  at  this  season  with  his  arms  and  pockets  filled 
with  books.  These  are  not,  alas!  the  spoils  of  a 
conqueror,  but  the  sacrifices  of  the  vanquished,  for 
every  spring  Hamlet  falls  in  love,  and  madly  sells 
his  books  for  flowers  and  art  jewelry.  His  dream- 
girls  are  always  of  the  practical  kind,  and  their 
affection  for  Hamlet  appears  to  pass  with  his 
library;  but  Hamlet  loves  the  spring  nevertheless. 
So  too,  I  suppose,  does  Pericles,  whose  madness, 
however,  fills  me  rather  with  envy  than  with  sym- 
pathy, for  to  him  the  spring  brings  a  passion  for 
work  that  enables  him  to  squander  the  summer 
hours  at  Lord's  or  the  Oval  like  a  capitalist.  There 
is  something  immoral  in  being  able  to  perform  prod- 
igies of  work  when  all  the  world  is  stretching  from 
its  winter  sleep.    But  so  it  is  with  Pericles,  and  his 

[20] 


friends  will  know  him  no  more  until  these  delicious 
months  are  over. 

In  truth  there  is  no  harm  in  these  vernal  follies; 
they  are  only  the  fuller  expression  of  that  self  over 
which  our  conventional  cunnings  have  no  control. 
Perhaps  if  we  were  honest  and  not  quite  so  civilised 
we  should  dance  blithely  along  Piccadilly  every  day 
of  our  short  lives.  Perhaps  if  we  understood  our 
neighbours  better  we  should  endure  every  night 
with  the  dreamy  colours  of  our  desires.  As  it  is,  it 
is  only  in  the  spring  that  we  are  willing  to  acknow- 
ledge the  charm — I  might  almost  say  virtue — of 
wise  excess.  Over  a  certain  section  of  one  of  the 
London  parks  there  used  to  rule  a  policeman  so 
dour  that  he  never  wearied  of  condemning  himself 
for  the  frivolous  character  of  his  dreams.  He  felt 
that  the  midnight  caperings  of  his  spirit  went  far  to 
counteract  the  rectitude  of  his  conscious  life,  and 
over  all  his  asceticism  there  hung  a  bitter  conscious- 
ness of  its  futility.  At  last,  on  a  golden  day  of 
spring,  he  proposed  to  and  was  accepted  by  a  nurse- 
maid of  secure  charms,  and  the  kingdom  of  para- 
dox knew  him  no  more.  He  traced  his  fall  to  a  bed 
of  tulips. 

But  most  cruel  of  all  are  the  dealings  of  this  wan- 
ton season  with  those  of  us  who  write  about  little 
things  with  wide,  splendid  words.  Never,  it  would 
seem,  are  our  emotions  more  trivial,  never  are  the 
words  with  which  we  hold  them  wider  and  more 

[21] 


splendid.    It  is  true  that  this  verbal  insanity  affects 
us  in  different  ways.     Me  does  the  coming  of  the 
almond  blossom  afflict  with  adjectives — great  and 
gorgeous  adjectives  in  merry  companies — fallen  to- 
gether by  the  chance  of  the  road,  but  surely  insep- 
arable thereafter.    There  is  nothing  to  be  done  with 
these  blithe  comrades  but  to  enshrine  them  in  note- 
books and  sigh  a  requiem.    For,  fine  as  life  is,  there 
is  nowhere  anything  on  the  earth  worthy  of  such 
epithets — and  I  lack  my  note-book  when  I  wander  in 
the  city  of  dreams.    Moreover,  this  futility  extends  to 
the  ideas  themselves  that  are  bred  in  our  minds  dur- 
ing this  happy,  bitter  season.    On  a  fair  morning  of 
spring  I  seemed  to  have  discovered  what  really  should 
be  done  with  H.M.S.  Buzzard,  that  promising  gun- 
boat which  lies  off  the  Embankment  for  the  encour- 
agement of  the  naval  volunteers.     As  in  a  vision,  I 
saw  her  captured  at  night  by  twelve  decadent  mil- 
lionaires, hopeful  of  winning  the  ultimate  sensation 
by  their  piratical  enterprise.    Thereafter  the  tale  pur- 
sued a  pleasant  and  profitable  course.    Their  number 
raised  to  thirteen  by  the  volunteering  of  a  romantic 
small  boy,  my  millionaires  diverted  themselves  by 
singing  sentimental  songs  to  the  tall  white  masts  and 
by  scattering  explosive  shells  like  roses  all  over  Lon- 
don. Beaten  at  last  by  the  invincible  force  of  the  Brit- 
ish Navy,  they  blow  a  magnificent  hole  in  the  bottom 
of  the  ship,  which  sinks  some  three  feet,  it  being  low 
tide,  and  there  are  god-like  laughters  upon  the  decks. 

[22] 


Finally,  I  think  the  survivors,  being  three  of  the  mil- 
lionaires and  the  small  boy,  were  to  drift  down  the 
river  towards  the  sea  in  a  leaky  boat. 

Here  was  a  fine  tale  with  never  a  woman  in  it, 
yet,  nevertheless,  it  was  of  the  spring.  For  when,  in 
an  autumnal  mood  I  revisited  the  Buzzard,  I  saw  that 
even  the  most  decadent  of  millionaires  or  the  most 
romantic  of  small  boys  could  not  hold  that  wretched 
vessel  for  five  minutes  against  a  handful  of  marks- 
men. So  passed  my  screaming  shells,  my  armoured 
tramcars,  my  ploughed  and  reddened  decks.  Before 
the  first  puff  of  saner  weather  my  visionary  galleon 
sailed  back  to  the  harbour  of  dreams. 

Yet  withal,  when  the  last  joss-stick  of  winter  dies 
in  the  room  and  the  scent  of  the  violets  in  the  flower- 
girls'  baskets  comes  singing  through  the  open  win- 
dow, it  is  only  the  more  cowardly  of  us  who  quaff  the 
cautious  iron  and  quinine.  Those  of  us  who  are  lovers 
know  that  there  are  troubling  days  before  us  in  this 
season  of  finite  sorrows  and  infinite  joys,  and  ama- 
teurs of  pain  as  we  are,  we  would  not  have  it  other- 
wise. It  is  enough  for  us,  though  our  feet  be  lame 
and  bleeding,  that,  from  the  grey  morning  and 
through  the  hot  day  and  down  to  the  cool  time  when 
the  stars  light  up  the  sky,  our  love  fares  on.  We 
may  mock  ourselves  with  speech  of  green-sickness 
and  of  faculties  devilishly  perturbed;  we  may  turn 
a  sorrowful  eye  on  the  morrow  inevitably  grey;  but 
our  hearts  are  for  the  spring. 

[23] 


Ernest  Dowson 

The  Tassing  of  Tennyson 


The  Massing  of  Tennyson 


S  HIS  own  Arthur  fared  across  the 
mere, 
With    the    grave    Queen,    past 
knowledge  of  the  throng, 
Serene    and    calm,    rebuking    grief 
and  tear, 
Departs  this  prince  of  song. 

Whom  the  gods  love,  Death  does  not  cleave  nor  smite, 
But  like  an  angel,  with  soft  trailing  wing, 

He  gathers  them  upon  the  hush  of  night, 
With  voice  and  beckoning. 

The  moonlight  falling  on  that  august  head, 
Smoothed  out  the  mark  of  time's  defiling  hand, 

And  hushed  the  voice  of  mourning  round  his  bed — 
"He  goes  to  his  own  land." 

Beyond  the  ramparts  of  the  world,  where  stray 
The  laurelled  few  o'er  fields  Elysian, 

He  joins  his  elders  of  the  lyre  and  bay, 
Led  by  the  Mantuan. 

We  mourn  him  not,  but  sigh  with  Bedivere, 
Not  perished  be  the  sword  he  bore  so  long, 

Excalibur,  whom  none  is  left  to  wear — 
His  magic  brand  of  song. 

[27] 


Stephen  Crane 

At  the  Pit  Door 
The  Great  Boer  Trek 


oAt  the  Pit  Door 


HE  long  file  of  people,  two  abreast, 
waiting  resignedly  for  the  hour  of 
7:30  p.  m.,  look  round  sharply  at  the 
open  space  beside  them  when  the  girl 
with  the  guitar  gives  a  preliminary 
strum.  They  are  prepared  to  welcome 
anything  calculated  to  chase  monotony, 
for  even  half-penny  comic  papers  after  a  time  cease 
to  amuse,  and  those  reminiscent  of  past  performances 
develop,  when  they  pass  a  certain  class,  into  first-class 
bores.  This  is  why  the  guitar  girl  comes  opportunely, 
and  when  she  lifts  up  her  chin  and  sings  in  a  raucous 
voice  to  a  tum-tum  accompaniment,  the  two-abreast 
crowd  listens  with  all  its  ears.  E  243,  at  the  end  of 
the  queue,  looks  on  tolerantly,  being  a  man  with 
musical  tastes  and  consequently  of  a  genial  disposi- 
tion.    Here  singeth  one: 

When  you  meet  a  nice  young  person  and  you  feel 

you've  see  a  worse  one, 
And  you  seek  a  interduction,  don't  you  know, 
You  are  puzzled  how  to  greet  her,  tho  no  lady  could 
be  neater, 
So  very  shy  and  strictly  comilfo. 

[31] 


You  puzzle   all  your  mind  and  brains,  you  take   a 
deuced  lot  of  pains, 
You  ponder  and  consider,  and  you  think 
It's  a  foolish,  silly  waste  of  time,  take  this  advice, 
dear  boys  of  mine, 
For  all  you've  got  to  do  is — give  a  wink. 
Give  a  wink,  boys — 

The  long  line  that  reaches  to  the  pit  doors  finds 
itself  forced  to  hum  the  enticing  chorus,  either  in 
shrill  soprano  or  growling  bass,  and  one  young  lady 
by  herself,  with  a  pince-nez  and  opera  glasses,  screws 
up  her  lips  to  whistle  it. 

The  guitar  girl  gives  a  second  song — a  senti- 
mental one  this  time,  with  good-byes  forever  and 
weeping  sweethearts  and  departing  emigrants,  and 
a  waltz  refrain,  and  nearly  everybody  dead  and  done 
for  in  the  last  verse.  Then  the  guitar  girl  brings  a 
scarlet  plush  bag  that  suggests  the  offertory,  and 
going  down  the  line,  gleans  as  much  as  eightpence- 
halfpenny. 

A  stout  man  in  a  tweed  cap  and  loose  tweed  suit, 
that  cries  aloud  at  elbows  and  knees  for  the  darning- 
needle;  he  has  a  Windsor  chair  with  him,  and  a  slip 
of  carpet,  and  these  he  places  on  the  ground  with 
much  care  and  particularity.  Throws  then  his  tweed 
cap  on  the  ground,  slips  his  jacket  off,  thumps  him- 
self on  his  broad  chest,  and  bows  to  his  audience. 

"Lydies  and  Gentlemen:  I  perpose  this  evenin' 
to  clime  your  kind  indulgence  whilst  I  submit  to  your 

[32] 


notice  a  few  feats  of  strength.  I  don't  perfess  to  do 
anything  that's  not  done  perfectly  striteforward, 
and  I  invite  your  attention  to  watch  whether  I  do 
anything  that  can  be  called  trickery.  If  any  one  can 
bowl  me  out  at  pretendin'  to  do  something  I  don't  do, 
why  I'll  forfeit" — here  the  stout  man  slaps  an  appar- 
ently empty  pocket — "I  will  forfeit  five  golding  sover- 
eigns." 

The  long  line  has  been  a  little  unconcerned  at  the 
acrobat's  lecture;  but  the  mention  of  as  much  as  five 
pounds  seems  to  quicken  its  interests.  The  heads  turn 
round  and  watch  the  stout  man  acutely. 

"I  first  take  up  the  chair  between  my  teeth — 
thus."  The  Windsor  chair  is  swung  to  and  fro  in  the 
air.  "I  then  place  the  foot  of  one  of  its  legs  on  my 
chin — thus."  The  Windsor  chair  turns  lazily  around 
on  its  perilous  axis.  "I  now  place  my  head  be- 
tween my  knees,  and  I  'old  the  chair  in  my  mouth — 
thus." 

The  stout  man  contorts  himself  into  a  prepos- 
terous position  and  does  a  kind  of  flag-signaling  with 
the  Windsor  chair.  "I  now  puts  the  chair  on  one 
side,  and  I  venture  to  trespass  on  your  valuable  time 
for  a  few  minutes  whilst  I  show  you  some  feats  equal 
to  those" — (the  stout  man  for  the  first  time  speaks 
with  acerbity) — "equal  to  those  that  so-called  acri- 
bats  at  the  music  'alls  are  getting  their  thirty  pun  a 
week  for." 

The  stout  man  holds  one  foot  high  and  dances 

[33] 


round  on  the  other  foot  in  the  manner  of  the  ladies  at 
the  Moulin  Rouge;  he  performs  the  unattractive 
"splits,"  he  stands  on  his  head  for  a  few  moments; 
he  walks  about  on  his  hands;  he  does  nearly  every- 
thing that  nobody  else  wants  to  do.  After  each 
achievement  he  blows  a  quick  kiss  to  the  patient 
crowd.  "Thanking  you  one  and  all,  lydies  and  gentle- 
men for  assisting  me  by  your  kind  attention,  I  now 
ast  you  to  remember  that  a  man's  got  his  livin'  to 
make,  altho  p'raps  we  may  'ave  different  ways  of 
doing  it.  Can  you  oblige,  miss,  by  starting  the  sub- 
scription list  with  a  copper?  If  I  can  only  get  a  good- 
looking — Thank  you  kindly,  miss.    And  you,  sir." 

A  melancholy  staring  boy  on  the  pavement  op- 
posite. It  is  quite  clear  that  he  is  about  to  do  some- 
thing ;  it  is  by  no  means  clear  what  that  something  is 
to  be.  When  the  stout  man  has  put  on  his  coat  and 
shouldered  his  Windsor  chair  and  lifted  his  tweed 
cap  to  the  crowd  politely,  the  melancholy  boy  moist- 
ens his  lips  and  grasps  the  lamp-post  with  one  hand. 
Then  he  whistles.  He  whistles,  truth  to  say,  ex- 
tremely well,  and  goes  stolidly  thru  the  overture  to 
"Zampa"  and  a  frivolous  polka,  closing  with  "Rule 
Britannia"  in  such  a  spirit  as  to  make  every  youth 
in  the  waiting  line  feel  that  unless  he  gives  the 
melancholy  youth  at  least  a  penny  he  is  nothing 
better  than  a  traitor  to  his  country. 

A  rattling  of  bones !  A  banging  of  tambourines ! 
A  ping-pong  of  banjos!    Six  men  in  straw  hats  and 

[34] 


white  canvas  suits  with  scarlet  stripes  and  perspiring 
blackened  faces  are  in  a  semi-circle  exchanging  noisy 
repartee  and — when  they  can  think  of  no  repartee — 
shouting  loudly  "Ooray!" 

"D'  you  'member  that  lil  song  of  yours,  Bones, 
that  used  to  make  people  cry?" 

"Do  I  'member?"  inquires  Bones  (in  the  Ollen- 
dorfian  manner)  "that  lil  song  of  mine  that  used  to 
make  people  cry?  Yes,  sir;  I  do  'member  that  lil 
song  of  mine  that  used  to  make  people  cry." 

"Will  you  'blige  me  by  singing  of  it  now?" 

Bones  is  a  short  boy  with  a  stubbled  sandy  mus- 
tache showing  thru  the  lamp-black  face.  He  steps 
out  of  the  semi-circle,  makes  a  bow  that  is  almost 
obsequious,  whilst  the  others  clatter  and  twang  thru 
the  symphony.  Then  Bones  looks  up  at  the  side  of 
the  theatre,  and  with  a  sort  of  ferocious  pathos 
sings : — 

Little  Nellie's  joined  the  angels, 
She  has  flown  to  realms  above: 

Never  more  shall  we  'ere  see  her; 
Gorn's  the  little  soul  we  love. 

But  the  mem'ry  of  her  features 

Always  wif  us  will  remine, 
And  the  sound  of  tiny  voices, 

Lingers  in  our  ears  agine. 

The  semi-circle  joins  in,  taking  its  several  parts 
in  a  strenuous  way. 

Gorn,  gorn  is  she,  gorn  from  all  earthly  strife, 
Free  from  all  sorrer    .     .     . 

[35] 


The  lugubrious  purple  song  has  three  verses, 
and  the  number  is  enough.  The  line  of  pit  patrons 
becomes  quite  depressed  and  sniffs  a  good  deal,  and 
one  lady,  borrowing  her  husband's  handkerchief, 
weeps  openly  and  without  restraint. 

"Song  and  dence!"  shouts  Tambourine,  "en- 
titled, 'Hev  you  seen  a  colored  coon  called  Pete  f  " 

Again  a  noisy  prelude.  It  is  Tambourine  him- 
self who  steps  out  this  time,  and  he  dances  a  few 
steps  on  the  graveled  space  as  earnest  of  what  is  to 
come,  and  to  a  red-faced  white-capped  servant  who  is 
gazing  intently  out  of  the  side  window  of  a  neighbor- 
ing hotel  he  waves  affectionate  greetings  and  hugs 
his  left  side  as  tho  the  sight  of  the  red-faced  domestic 
had  affected  his  heart. 

I'm  a  sassy  nigger  gal,  and  me  front  name  it  is  Sal, 

Soft  chorus  from  the  semi-circle : — 

Hev  ye  seen  a  colored  coon  called  Pete? 

Tambourine  continues: — 

And  the  games  we  darkies  play,  in  the  night  and  in  the 
day, 

Soft  chorus  as  before : — 

Hev  ye   seen   a   colored   coon  called   Pete? 

But  I  want  to  ask  you  suthin'  and — 

The  long  straight  crowd  is  beginning  to  look  at 
its  watches.  The  hour  is  7 :30  precisely,  and  what  the 
crowd  asks  with  much  impatience  is,  that  if  they 
don't  mean  to  open  the  doors  at  7 :30,  what  on  earth 

[36] 


makes  them  put  7:30  in  the  paper  for?  The  worst  of 
theatres  is  that  you  can  never — 

A  sound  of  moving  bolts.  A  closing  up  in  the 
ranks  of  the  long  line.  A  warning  word  from  E  243. 
The  song  stops  and  the  minstrels  hurry  forward  to 
the  moving  crowd  with  their  straw  hats  outstretched. 
It  is  too  late.  The  crowd  is  so  much  engaged  in  feel- 
ing for  its  half-crowns  and  in  keeping  a  steady  eye 
on  the  gaping  open  doorway  that  it  cannot  trouble 
about  any  more  gifts  to  entertainers. 

"  'Pon  me  bloomin'  oath,"  says  Tambourine  with 
much  annoyance,  "if  this  ain't  jest  like  me  nawsty 
luck!" 


[37] 


The  Cjreat  ^oer  Trek 


HEN,  in  1806,  Cape  Colony  finally 
passed  into  the  hands  of  the  Brit- 
ish government,  it  might  well  have 
seemed  possible  for  the  white  in- 
habitants to  dwell  harmoniously  together.  The 
Dutch  burghers  were  in  race  much  the  same  men  who 
had  peopled  England  and  Scotland.  There  was  none 
of  that  strong  racial  and  religious  antipathy  which 
seems  to  make  forever  impossible  any  lasting 
understanding  between  Ireland  and  her  dominat- 
ing partner. 

The  Boers  were  more  devoid  of  Celtic  fervors 
and  fluctuations  of  temperament  than  the  English 
themselves;  in  religion  Protestant,  by  nature  hard- 
working, thrifty,  independent,  they  would  naturally, 
it  seems,  have  called  for  the  good  will  and  respect  of 
their  conquerors.  But  the  two  peoples  seemed  to  have 
been  keenly  aware  of  each  other's  failings  from  the 
first.  To  the  Boers,  the  English  seemed  prejudiced 
and  arrogant  beyond  mortal  privilege;  the  English 
told  countless  tales  of  the  Boers'  trickery,  their  dull- 

[39] 


ness,  their  boasting,  their  indolence,  their  bigotry. 
The  burghers  had  transplanted  the  careful  habits  of 
their  homes  in  the  Netherlands  to  a  different  climate 
and  new  conditions.  In  South  Africa  they  were  still 
industrious  and  thrifty,  and  their  somewhat  gloomy 
religion  was  more  strongly  rooted  than  ever.  Al- 
though they  lived  nomadic  lives  on  the  frontier,  yet 
they  had  made  themselves  substantial  dwellings 
within  the  towns;  the  streets  were  blossoming  bow- 
ers of  trees  and  shrubs;  their  flocks  and  herds 
increased,  their  fields  produced  mightily.  In  the 
courts  of  law  they  had  shown  conspicuous  ability 
whilst  acting  as  heemraden;  they  had  made  good 
elders  and  deacons  in  their  churches,  and  good  com- 
mandants and  field  cornets  in  war — the  ever-recur- 
ring conflicts  with  the  Kaffirs. 

Many  observers  have  noted  the  strong  similarity 
of  thought  and  character  between  the  Dutchmen  and 
the  Scotchmen.  There  is  the  same  thrift  which  is 
often  extreme  parsimony,  combined  with  great  hos- 
pitality, the  same  dogged  obstinacy,  and  the  same  de- 
light in  overreaching  in  all  matters  of  business  and 
bargain-driving.  Moreover,  their  religious  ideals 
bear  the  strongest  resemblance  one  to  the  other.  In 
his  character  as  a  colonist  the  Boer  certainly  showed 
magnificent  qualities;  he  could  work  and  endure  and 
fight.  But  in  spite  of  his  dour  sanctimoniousness,  he 
was  not  a  perfect  person,  any  more  than  his  brother 
Briton.     The  English  missionaries  objected  to  his 

[40] 


treatment  of  the  natives,  but  there  was  never  any  of 
the  terrible  cruelty  practised  that  the  Spaniards  used 
toward  the  natives  during  their  colonization  of  Mex- 
ico— nor  that  of  various  French,  English  and  Portu- 
guese adventurers  in  Africa  during  the  seventeenth 
century.  But  the  fact  remains  that  the  entire  race  of 
Hottentots  has  been  modified  through  the  Dutch  oc- 
cupation; it  is  said  that  no  pure-blooded  Hottentot 
remains.  This  amalgamation  was  treated  by  the 
Boers  as  a  commonplace  thing.  That  habit  of  theirs 
of  producing  scriptural  authority  for  all  their  acts 
must  have  begun  with  their  settlement  in  Cape 
Colony. 

The  "bastards,"  as  they  were  openly  called,  were 
well  treated,  brought  up  as  Christians  and  to  lead  a 
tolerably  civilized  life.  The  English  missionaries  were 
filled  with  disgust  at  this  state  of  things,  and  the 
Boers  were  denounced  from  missionary  platforms 
throughout  England.  Undoubtedly  the  missionaries 
were  right,  but  the  Boers,  alas,  are  not  the  only 
white  race  who  have  taken  this  patriarchal  attitude 
toward  the  natives  of  the  country  they  were  en- 
gaged in  colonizing.  The  missionaries  in  their  other 
charges  were  fanatical  and  ridiculous;  they  described 
the  Boers  as  cruel  barbarians,  because  they  would 
not  allow  the  vermin-haunted  Hottentots  to  join 
them  at  family  prayers  in  their  "best  rooms."  The 
Colonial  Office  acted  on  these  representations,  and 
refused  to  listen  to  any  complaints  of  the  Boers. 

[41] 


As  they  numbered  less  than  ten  thousand,  and 
English  emigrants  were  constantly  pouring  into  the 
colony,  the  Boers  were  considered  of  little  impor- 
tance to  the  Government;  it  was  not  imagined  that 
they  could  do  anything  effectual  in  the  way  of 
resistance.  In  short,  they,  who  had  been  the  ruling 
race  in  the  colony  for  over  a  century,  were  now  a 
subject  race;  they  were  hampered  and  restricted  on 
every  side. 

The  first  grievance  of  the  Boers  was  the  atti- 
tude of  the  English  missionaries.  Some  of  these 
were  men  of  high  religious  ideals,  but  most  of  them 
were  politicians.  Mr.  Vanderkemp  and  Mr.  Read, 
missionaries  of  the  London  society,  who  had  taken 
black  wives,  and  announced  themselves  champions 
of  the  black  race  against  the  white,  had  sent  to 
England  reports  of  a  number  of  murders  and  out- 
rages said  to  have  been  committed  upon  Hottentots 
by  the  Dutch  colonists.  By  order  of  the  British 
government  fifty-eight  white  men  and  women  were 
put  to  trial  for  these  crimes  in  1812,  and  over  a 
thousand  witnesses,  black  and  white,  were  called  to 
give  evidence.  Several  cases  of  assault  were  proved, 
and  punished,  but  none  of  the  serious  charges  were 
substantiated.  In  1814,  a  farmer,  Frederick  Bezui- 
denhout,  quarreled  with  his  native  servant,  and 
refused  to  appear  at  a  court  of  justice  to  answer  the 
charges  of  ill  treatment.  A  company  of  Hottentots 
was  sent  to  arrest  him;  he  fired  on  them  and  they 

[42] 


shot  him  dead.  A  company  of  about  fifty  men 
joined  an  insurrection  under  the  leadership  of  Ben- 
zuidenhout's  brother  Jan,  but  a  strong  force  of 
Boers  aided  the  government  in  putting  down  this 
rebellion;  all  surrendered  but  Jan,  who  was  shot  and 
killed. 

Lord  Charles  Somerset,  who  drew  a  salary  of  ten 
thousand  pounds  a  year,  with  four  residences,  was 
Governor  at  the  time.  He  was  arbitrary  as  a  prince, 
and  afterward  suppressed  a  liberal  newspaper  and 
forbade  public  meetings.  The  prisoners  were  taken 
and  tried — they  were  thirty-nine  in  number — and  six 
were  sentenced  to  death,  while  the  others  all  received 
some  form  of  punishment.  Somerset  was  entreated 
to  annul  the  death  sentence,  but  would  do  so  only  in 
one  instance.  The  remaining  five  were  executed  in 
the  presence  of  their  friends,  and  the  scaffold  broke 
with  their  weight;  they  were  all  unconscious  and 
were  resuscitated.  When  they  had  been  brought  to 
consciousness  their  friends  vehemently  besought 
Somerset  to  reprieve  them,  but  he  was  firm  in  his 
refusal  and  they  were  hanged  again. 

This  event  caused  a  lasting  bitterness  among  the 
Boers;  the  place  of  execution  is  known  as  Slachter's 
Nek  to  this  day.  In  1823,  the  Dutch  courts  of  justice 
were  abolished  with  their  landrosts  and  heemraden, 
and  in  the  place  of  them  English  courts  were  estab- 
lished, with  magistrates,  civil  commissioners  and 
justices  of  the  peace.    The  burgher  senate  was  abol- 

[43] 


ished,  also,  and  notices  were  sent  to  the  old  colonists 
that  all  documents  addressed  to  the  government  must 
be  written  in  English.  Soon  after,  a  case  was  to  be 
tried  at  the  circuit  court  at  Worcester,  and  one  of  the 
judges  removed  it  to  Cape  Town  because  there  was 
not  a  sufficient  number  of  English-speaking  men  to 
form  a  jury,  though  the  prisoner  and  the  witnesses 
could  speak  Dutch  only,  and  whatever  they  said 
had  to  be  translated  in  court.  The  judges  were 
divided  in  their  opinion  as  to  whether  it  were  neces- 
sary for  every  juryman  to  speak  English;  in  1831  an 
ordinance  was  issued  defining  the  qualifications  of 
jurymen  and  a  knowledge  of  English  was  not  one 
of  them.  But  in  the  meantime  the  Boers  had  been 
greatly  embittered  by  their  exclusion  from  the  jury- 
box.  They  would  not  write  memorials  about  it  to 
the  government,  because  they  refused  to  write 
English. 

During  the  years  of  English  occupation  the  fron- 
tier aggressions  of  the  Kaffirs  were  of  frequent  occur- 
rence. The  document  called,  "An  Earnest  Represen- 
tation and  Historical  Reminder  to  H.  M.  Queen  Vic- 
toria, in  View  of  the  Present  Crisis,  by  P.  J.  Joubert," 
published  a  few  months  ago,  contains  this  reference 
to  the  frontier  wars:  "Natives  molested  them  (the 
Boers) ;  they  were  murdered,  robbed  of  their  cattle, 
their  homes  were  laid  waste.  Unspeakable  horrors 
were  inflicted  on  their  wives  and  daughters.  The 
Boer  was  called  out  for  commando  service  at  his  own 

[44] 


expense,  under  command  and  control  of  the  British, 
to  fight  the  Kaffirs.  While  on  commando  his  cattle 
were  stolen  by  Kaffirs.  After,  they  were  made  to 
wait  until  troops  retook  the  cattle,  which  were  after- 
ward publicly  sold  as  lost  in  the  presence  of  their 
owners,  the  Boers  being  informed  that  they  should 
receive  compensation — not  in  money  or  goods,  neither 
in  rest  nor  peace,  but  instead,  indignities  and  abuse 
were  heaped  on  them.  They  were  told  that  they 
should  be  satisfied  at  not  being  punished  as  the  insti- 
gators of  the  disturbance." 

As  far  back  as  1809,  Hottentots  were  prohibited 
from  wandering  about  the  country  without  passes, 
and  from  1812,  Hottentot  children  who  had  been 
maintained  for  eight  years  by  the  employers  of  their 
parents,  were  bound  as  apprenticed  for  ten  years 
longer.  The  missionaries  were  dissatisfied  with 
these  restrictions;  both  of  them  were  removed  by  an 
ordinance  passed  July,  1828,  when  vagrant  Hotten- 
tots began  to  wander  over  the  country  at  will. 
Farming  became  almost  impossible;  the  farm-labor- 
ers became  vagabonds  and  petty  thefts  took  place 
constantly. 

Early  in  1834,  Sir  Benjamin  D'Urban,  called 
"the  Good,"  was  appointed  Governor.  A  legislative 
council  was  then  granted  the  colony,  but  its  powers 
were  not  great. 

The  Boers  had  never  been  greatly  in  favor  (many 
opposed  it  strongly)  of  slavery,  but  they  had  yielded 

[45] 


to  the  general  custom  and  over  three  million  pounds 
was  invested  in  slaves  throughout  the  colony  in  1834. 
Sir  Benjamin  D'Urban  proclaimed  the  emancipa- 
tion of  the  slaves,  who  had  been  set  free  throughout 
the  British  Empire,  in  August,  1833.  This  freeing 
was  to  take  effect  in  Cape  Colony  on  the  1st  of 
December,  1834. 

The  news  of  the  emancipation  was  felt  to  be  a 
relief,  but  the  terms  on  which  it  was  conducted  were 
productive  of  unending  trouble.  The  slave-owners  of 
Cape  Colony  were  awarded  less  than  a  million  and  a 
quarter  for  their  slaves — and  the  imperial  govern- 
ment refused  to  send  the  money  to  South  Africa; 
each  claim  was  to  be  proved  before  commissioners 
in  London,  when  the  amount  would  be  paid  in  stock. 
To  make  a  journey  of  one  hundred  days  to  London 
was,  of  course,  impossible  to  the  farmers;  they  were 
at  the  mercy  of  agents  who  made  their  way  down  to 
the  colony  and  purchased  the  claims,  so  that  the 
colonist  received  sometimes  a  fifth,  sometimes  a 
sixth,  or  less,  of  the  value  of  his  slaves.  The  colo- 
nists had  hoped  that  a  vagrant  act  would  have  been 
passed  by  the  Council  when  the  slaves  were  freed, 
to  keep  them  from  being  still  further  overrun  by  this 
large  released  black  population,  but  this  was  not 
done. 

In  1834,  the  first  band  of  emigrants  left  the 
colony — forty-five  men  under  a  leader  named  Louis 
Triechard,  from  the  division  of  Albany.     He  was  a 

[46] 


violent-tempered  man,  and  so  loudly  opposed  to  the 
government  that  Col.  Harry  Smith  offered  a  reward 
of  five  hundred  cattle  for  his  apprehension.  He  left 
then  at  once,  being  of  the  class  of  Boers  on  the  fron- 
tier who  lived  in  their  wagons,  as  though  they  were 
ships  at  sea,  and  had  no  settled  habitation.  His  party 
was  joined,  before  it  left  the  colonial  border,  by 
Johannes  Rensburg.  Together  they  had  thirty 
wagons.  They  traveled  northward.  All  but  two  of 
Rensburg's  party  were  killed,  and  those  of  Triech- 
ard's  party  who  escaped  the  savages  reached  Delagoa 
Bay  in  1838,  after  terrible  hardships,  where  they 
received  great  kindness  from  the  Portuguese.  But 
their  sufferings  had  been  so  great  that  only  twenty- 
six  lived  to  be  shipped  to  Natal.  But  before  the  emi- 
gration reached  its  height  another  Kaffir  war  came 
on.  There  was  a  tremendous  invasion  of  savages, 
between  twelve  and  twenty  thousand  warriors,  who 
swept  along  the  frontier,  killing,  plundering  and 
burning.  December,  1834,  under  Col.  Harry  Smith 
a  large  force  was  raised;  they  marched  into  Kaffir- 
land,  and  defeated  and  dispersed  the  invaders,  who 
were  compelled  to  sue  for  peace.  As  a  security  for 
the  future,  Sir  Benjamin  D'Urban,  who  was  also  at 
the  front,  issued  a  proclamation,  declaring  British 
sovereignty  to  be  extended  over  the  territory  of  the 
defeated  tribes  as  far  as  the  Kei  River.  But  while 
the  people  were  still  suffering  from  the  effects  of  the 
invasion,  an  order  came  from  Lord  Glenelg — who 

[47] 


became  Secretary  of  State  for  the  Colonies  in  April, 
1835 — peremptorily  ordering  that  the  new  territory 
must  be  immediately  given  up,  on  the  ground  that  it 
had  been  unjustly  acquired. 

The  Boers  now  felt  that  no  security  existed  for 
life  or  property  on  the  frontier;  all  the  support  of  the 
British  government  was  given — with  a  philanthropy 
stimulated  by  the  missionaries — to  the  black  races 
as  against  the  Boer  farmer.  The  feeling  had  now 
become  general  among  them  that  they  must  escape 
British  rule  at  any  cost.  They  left  their  homes  and 
cultivated  fields  and  gardens — the  homes  of  over  a 
century's  growth — and  started  into  the  wilds.  Pur- 
chases of  the  vacated  property  were  not  frequent;  a 
house  sometimes  was  sold  for  an  ox;  many  of  them 
were  simply  left,  with  no  sale  having  been  made. 
All  over  the  frontier  districts  the  great  wagons  set 
out,  loaded  with  household  goods,  provisions  and 
ammunition,  to  seek  new  homes  farther  north. 
Each  party  had  its  commandant  and  was  generally 
made  up  of  families  related  to  each  other.  When 
the  pasturage  was  good,  the  caravans  would  some- 
times rest  for  weeks  together,  while  the  cows  and 
oxen,  horses  and  sheep  and  goats  grazed.  General 
Joubert  declares  that  they  were  followed  as  far  as 
the  Orange  River  by  British  emissaries  who  wanted 
to  be  sure  that  they  took  no  arms  nor  ammunition 
with  them.    However,  he  adds,  the  Boers  were  able 

[48] 


to  conceal  their  weapons — a  fact  that  seems  a  very 
modern  instance,  indeed. 

North  of  the  Orange  River  the  colonists  regarded 
themselves  as  quite  free,  for  Great  Britain  had  de- 
clared officially  that  she  would  not  enlarge  her  South 
African  possessions. 

The  emigrants  were  ridiculed  for  leaving  their 
homes  for  the  wilderness — "for  freedom  and  grass," 
and  were  called  professional  squatters.  One  English 
writer  said:  "The  frontier  Boer  looks  with  pity  on 
the  busy  hives  of  humanity  in  cities,  or  even  in  vil- 
lages; and  regarding  with  disdain  the  grand,  but  to 
him  unintelligible,  results  of  combined  industry,  the 
beauty  and  excellence  of  which  he  cannot  know,  be- 
cause they  are  intellectually  discerned,  he  tosses  up 
his  head  like  a  wild  horse,  utters  a  neigh  of  exultation, 
and  plunges  into  the  wilderness." 

The  number  of  "trekkers"  has  been  estimated  at 
from  five  thousand  to  ten  thousand.  The  tide  of  emi- 
gration (they  went  generally  in  small  bands)  flowed 
across  the  Orange  River  and  then  followed  a  course 
for  some  distance  parallel  with  the  Quathtamba 
Mountains.  By  this  route  the  warlike  Kaffirs  were 
evaded,  the  only  native  tribes  passed  through  being 
small  disorganized  bodies.  Near  the  Vaal  River,  how- 
ever, resided  the  powerful  Matabele  nation,  under  the 
famous  Moselekatze,  a  warrior  of  Zulu  birth,  who  had 
established  himself  there  and  brought  into  complete 
subjection  all  the  neighboring  tribes. 

[49] 


One  band  of  emigrants  under  Commandant 
Henrik  Potgieter,  a  man  of  considerable  ability,  ar- 
rived at  the  banks  of  the  Vet  River,  a  tributary  of  the 
Vaal.  Here  he  found  a  native  chief  who  lived  in  con- 
stant dread  of  Moselekatze,  who  sold  to  Potgieter 
the  land  between  the  Vet  and  the  Vaal  Rivers,  for  a 
number  of  cattle,  Potgieter  guaranteeing  him  protec- 
tion from  Moselekatze.  After  a  while,  Commandant 
Potgieter,  with  a  party,  went  to  explore  the  country, 
and  traveled  north  to  the  Zoutpansberg,  where  the 
fertility  of  the  soil  seemed  encouraging.  They  also 
believed  that  communication  with  the  outer  world 
could  be  opened  through  Delagoa  Bay,  so  that  the 
country  seemed  to  offer  every  advantage  for  settle- 
ment. In  high  spirits  they  came  back  to  rejoin  their 
families,  but  a  hideous  surprise  awaited  them;  they 
found  only  mutilated  corpses.  Expecting  an  imme- 
diate return  of  the  Matabele  who  had  massacred  his 
people,  Potgieter  made  a  strong  laager  on  a  hill,  by 
lashing  fifty  wagons  together  in  a  circle,  and  filling 
all  the  open  spaces,  except  a  narrow  entrance,  with 
thorn-trees.  Presently  the  Matabele  returned,  and 
with  great  shouts  and  yells  stormed  the  camp,  rush- 
ing up  to  the  wagon-wheels  and  throwing  assegais. 
But  the  Boers,  with  their  powerful  "roers,"  or  ele- 
phant-guns, kept  such  a  rapid  and  skillful  fire,  while 
the  women  kept  the  spare  guns  reloaded,  that  the 
Matabele  were  forced  to  retire,  but  they  drove  with 
them  all  the  cattle  of  the  party.    They  left  one  hun- 

[50] 


dred  and  fifty  dead,  and  one  thousand  one  hundred 
of  their  spears  were  afterward  picked  up. 

The  emigrants  in  the  laager  were  left  without 
the  means  of  transportation,  and  very  little  food, 
while  they  had  lost  forty-six  of  their  people.  But  for- 
tunately they  were  near  the  third  band  of  emigrants 
under  Commandant  Gerrit  Maritz,  who  encamped 
near  the  mission  station  at  Thaba  Ntshu,  and  now 
sent  oxen  to  carry  away  Potgieter  and  the  others. 
Also  a  native  chief  Marroco,  brought  them  milk  and 
Kaffir  corn,  and  pack-oxen  to  help  them  away.  It  was 
resolved  to  revenge  the  massacre,  to  follow  up 
Moselekatze  and  punish  him.  One  hundred  and 
seven  Boers  mustered  for  this  service,  besides  forty 
half-breeds,  and  a  few  blacks  to  take  care  of  the 
horses.  A  deserter  from  the  Matabele  army  acted 
as  guide.  The  commando  surprised  Mosega,  one  of 
the  principal  military  towns,  and  killed  four  hun- 
dred. Then  setting  fire  to  the  kraal,  they  drove 
seven  thousand  head  of  cattle  back  to  Thaba  Ntshu. 
Potgieter's  party  then  formed  a  camp  on  the  Vet 
(they  called  it  Winburg),  which  was  joined  by 
many  families  from  the  colony.  Another  band  soon 
reached  Thaba  Ntshu,  under  Pieter  Retief,  a  man 
of  great  intelligence.  June  6th,  1837,  a  general 
assembly  of  Boers  was  held  at  Winburg,  when  a 
provisional  constitution,  consisting  of  nine  articles, 
was  adopted.  The  supreme  legislative  power  was 
intrusted  to  a  single  elective  chamber,  termed  the 

[51] 


Volksraad,  the  fundamental  law  was  declared  to  be 
the  Dutch,  a  court  of  landrost  and  heemraden  was 
created,  and  the  chief  executive  authority  was  given 
to  Retief,  with  the  title  of  Commandant-General 
One  article  provided  that  all  who  joined  the  com- 
munity must  have  no  connection  with  the  London 
Missionary  Society. 

New  bands  of  emigrants  were  constantly  arriv- 
ing, and  some  of  them  wished  to  go  into  Natal, 
although  the  condition  of  the  camp  at  Winburg  was 
very  satisfactory.  Pieter  Uys,  one  of  their  leaders, 
had  visited  Natal  before,  and  had  been  impressed 
with  its  beauty  and  fertility.  Retief  finally  decided 
to  go  and  see  for  himself  if  Dingaan,  the  Zulu  chief, 
would  dispose  of  some  land  below  the  mountain. 

While  he  was  gone,  a  second  expedition  against 
the  Matabele  set  out,  consisting  of  one  hundred  and 
thirty-five  farmers,  under  Potgieter  and  Pieter  Uys. 
They  found  Mosega  with  twelve  thousand  warriors, 
brave  and  finely  trained,  but  at  the  end  of  nine  days' 
warfare,  Moselekatze  fled  to  the  north,  after  a  loss  of 
something  like  one  thousand  men.  Command  Pot- 
gieter now  issued  a  proclamation  declaring  that  the 
whole  of  the  territory  overrun  by  the  Matabele,  and 
now  abandoned  by  them,  was  forfeited  to  the  Boers. 
It  included  the  greater  part  of  the  present  South  Afri- 
can Republic,  fully  half  of  the  present  Orange  Free 
State,  and  the  whole  of  Southern  Bechuanaland  to 
the  Kalahari  Desert,  except  that  part  occupied  by  the 

[52] 


Batlapin.  This  immense  tract  of  land  was  then  almost 
uninhabited,  and  must  have  remained  so  if  the  Mata- 
bele  had  not  been  driven  out. 

Much  has  been  written  of  the  beauties  of  Natal, 
with  its  shores  washed  by  the  Indian  Ocean,  its  rich 
soil,  luxuriant  vegetation  and  noble  forests.  When 
Pieter  Retief  first  saw  it  from  the  Drakensburg  Moun- 
tains, it  was  under  the  despotic  rule  of  the  Zulu  chief 
Dingaan,  who  had  succeeded  Tshaka,  the  "Napoleon 
of  Africa,"  the  slayer  of  a  million  human  beings.  A 
few  Englishmen,  who  were  allowed  to  live  at  the  port, 
gladly  welcomed  the  emigrants,  and  took  them  to 
Dingaan's  capital,  called  Umkunguhloon,  acting  as 
guides  and  interpreters.  There  was  an  English  mis- 
sionary clergyman  living  there,  called  Owen.  Din- 
gaan received  them  graciously  and  supplied  them 
with  chunks  of  beef  from  his  own  eating-mat,  and 
huge  calabashes  of  millet  beer.  But  when  Retief 
spoke  about  Natal,  the  despot  set  him  a  task,  such  as 
one  reads  of  in  folk-lore  legends.  Retief  might  have 
Natal  for  his  countrymen  to  live  in  if  he  would 
recover  a  herd  of  seven  hundred  cattle  that  had 
been  recently  stolen  from  him  by  Sikouyela,  a  Man- 
tater  chief.  Retief  accepted  the  condition,  and 
actually  made  Sikouyela  restore  the  cattle,  which  he 
drove  back  to  Dingaan.  The  Boers  at  Winburg 
felt  distrustful  of  Dingaan,  and  dreaded  to  have 
Peter  Retief  trust  himself  again  in  the  tyrant's 
hands.    But  in  February,  1838,  Retief  started  with 

[53] 


seventy  persons,  armed  and  mounted  with  thirty 
attendants.  Again  Dingaan  received  them  hospit- 
ably, and  empowered  the  missionary  Owen  to  draw 
up  a  document  granting  to  Retief  the  country 
between  Tugela  and  the  Umzimvooboo.  But  just 
as  the  emigrants  were  ready  to  leave  they  were 
invited  into  a  cattle-kraal  to  see  a  war-dance,  and 
requested  to  leave  their  arms  outside  the  door. 
While  sitting  down  they  were  overpowered  and 
massacred,  the  horror-stricken  Owen  being  a  wit- 
ness of  the  sight. 

Immediately  after  the  massacre,  Dingaan  sent 
out  his  forces  against  all  the  emigrants  on  the  eastern 
side  of  the  Drakensberg.  Before  daylight  they  at- 
tacked the  encampments  at  Blaanwkrauz  River  and 
the  Bushman  River — ten  miles  apart.  It  was  a  com- 
plete surprise  and  a  terrible  slaughter  of  the  Boers, 
although  a  brave  defense  was  made.  The  township 
which  has  since  arisen  near  the  scene  of  the  conflict 
still  bears  the  name  of  Weemen — the  place  of  wailing. 

As  soon  as  the  emigrants  on  the  west  of  the 
Drakensberg  heard  of  the  disasters,  they  formed  a 
band  of  about  eight  hundred  men  to  punish  Dingaan 
for  his  treachery.  But  they  were  led  into  ambush, 
and  finally  defeated  by  the  Zulus,  and  forced  to 
retreat  after  a  tremendous  loss  of  life.  The  condi- 
tion of  the  emigrants  was  now  one  of  terrible  dis- 
tress and  privation.  They  had  many  widows  and 
orphans   to   provide   for.    The   Governor   of   Cape 

[54] 


Colony  sent  word  to  them  to  return,  and  there  were 
many  who  felt  willing  to  go,  but  it  was  the  women 
of  the  party  who  sternly  refused  to  go  back;  they 
preferred  liberty,  although  that  liberty  had  cost 
them  so  dear.  In  November,  1838,  Andries  Preto- 
rius  arrived  in  Natal  from  Graaff  Reinet  and  was  at 
once  elected  Commandant- General.  He  organized 
a  force  of  four  hundred  and  sixty-four  men  and 
marched  toward  Umkungunhloon.  He  took  with 
him  a  sufficient  number  of  wagons  to  form  a  laager; 
wherever  the  camp  was  pitched  it  was  surrounded 
by  fifty-seven  wagons;  all  the  cattle  were  brought 
within  the  inclosure,  the  whole  force  joining  in 
prayers  and  the  singing  of  psalms.  The  army  made 
a  vow  that  if  victorious  they  would  build  a  church, 
and  set  apart  a  thanksgiving  day  each  year  to  com- 
memorate it.  The  church  in  Pietermaritzburg  and 
the  annual  celebration  of  Dingaan's  defeat  witness 
that  they  kept  their  pledge.  They  were  not  fighting 
for  revenge.  On  three  occasions  the  scouts  brought 
in  some  captured  Zulus,  and  Pretorius  sent  them 
back  to  Dingaan  to  say  that  if  he  would  restore  the 
land  he  had  granted  Retief  he  would  enter  into 
negotiations  for  peace. 

Dingaan's  reply  came  in  the  form  of  an  army  ten 
thousand  or  twelve  thousand  strong,  which  attacked 
the  camp  on  December  16,  1838.  For  two  hours  the 
Zulus  tried  to  force  their  way  into  the  laager,  while 
the  Boer  guns  and  the  small  artillery  made  dreadful 

[55] 


havoc  in  their  ranks.  When  at  length  they  broke  and 
fled,  over  three  thousand  Zulu  corpses  lay  on  the 
ground  and  a  stream  that  flowed  through  the  battle- 
field was  crimson.  It  has  been  known  ever  since  as 
the  Blood  River. 

Pretorius  marched  on  to  Umkungunhloon  as  soon 
as  possible,  but  Dingaan  had  set  the  place  on  fire  and 
fled. 

Dingaan,  with  the  remainder  of  his  forces,  retired 
farther  into  Zululand.  There,  soon  after,  his  brother, 
Pauda,  revolted,  and  fled  with  a  large  following  into 
Natal,  where  he  sought  the  protection  of  the  Boers. 
Another  and  final  expedition  was  made  against  Din- 
gaan in  January,  1840,  the  farmers  having  Pauda  with 
four  thousand  of  his  best  warriors  as  an  ally.  By 
February  10th,  Dingaan  was  a  fugitive  in  the  country 
of  a  hostile  tribe,  who  soon  killed  him,  and  the  emi- 
grant farmers  were  the  conquerors  of  Zululand.  On 
that  day  Pauda  was  appointed  and  declared  to  be 
"King  of  the  Zulus"  in  the  name  and  behalf  of  the 
Volksraad  at  Pietermaritzburg,  where  the  Boers 
established  their  seat  of  government  as  "The  South 
African  Society  of  Natal." 

Four  days  afterward,  a  proclamation  was  issued 
at  the  same  camp,  signed  by  Pretorius  and  four  com- 
mandants under  him,  declaring  all  the  territory  be- 
tween the  Black  Imfolosi  and  the  Umzimvooboo 
Rivers  to  belong  to  the  emigrant  farmers.  "The 
national  flag  was  hoisted,"  says  a  chronicler,  "a  salute 

[56] 


of  twenty-one  guns  fired,  and  a  general  hurrah  given 
throughout  the  whole  army,  while  all  the  men  as  with 
one  voice  called  out:  'Thanks  to  the  great  God  who 
by  His  grace  has  given  us  the  victory!" 

Now  that  the  "trekkers"  had  freed  South  Africa 
from  the  destructive  Zulu  power,  and  had  driven  the 
Matabele  away,  they  wished  to  settle  in  Natal,  and 
rest  from  the  nomadic  existence  that  had  so  long 
been  theirs.  But  the  British  now  came  forward  to 
hunt  them  on  again.  The  Governor  of  Cape  Col- 
ony, Sir  George  Napier,  proclaimed  that  "the  occu- 
pation of  Natal  by  the  emigrants  was  unwarrant- 
able," and  directed  that  "all  arms  and  ammunition 
should  be  taken  from  them,  and  the  port  closed 
against  trade." 

What  followed — the  British  bombardment  of  the 
port,  the  Dutch  surrender,  are  well-known  facts  of 
history.  May  12,  1843,  Natal  was  proclaimed  a  Brit- 
ish colony,  and  the  emigrants  again  took  to  their 
wagons,  crossing  the  Vaal. 


[57] 


Edgar  Saltus 

The  Feast 


The  Feail 


Ty^ELOW   the   glow   of   Guatemalan 
skies, 
In  groves  where  undergrass  grows 
Jg>V  overgreen, 

)&c\  Where   saffron   quetzals   from  the 
branches  lean 
And  lilac  lizards  with  basaltic  eyes 
Dart  their  vermilion  tongues  at  fire-flies 
That  gleam  in  sudden  loops  of  light  between 
The  orchids  and  the  fuchsias  and  their  sheen — 
Supremely  there  a  spangled  jaguar  lies. 


Curled  in  a  velvet  knot,  the  radiant  beast 
Sleeps  on  the  vivid  grass  and  sleeping  dreams 
That  out  beyond  the  brush  and  buds  beneath, 
Crouching  he  springs  and  knows  again  the  feast; 
The  startled  prey,  the  vain  escape,  the  screams, 
The  flesh  that  parts  and  bleeds  between  his  teeth. 


[61] 


John  Myers  O'Hara 

"^ew  Songs  of  Sappho 


(^ew  Songs  of  Sappho 


THE  TEMPEST. 

HEN  the  tempest  lashes  the  waves 

and  mighty 
Blasts  of  wind  bring  fear  to  the 
heart  of  the  sailor, 
Swift  he  casts  his  goods  in  the  sea  and  turning 
Beaches  his  galley; 

As  for  me,  I  pray  I  may  never  venture 
Over  waters  tossed  by  the  storm  to  any 
Land  and  throw  my  precious  bales  in  the  ocean, 
Rather  than  perish; 

But  if  wrathful  Nereids  should  rise  around  me, 
In  their  flowing  emerald  robes  receiving 
Gifts  from  me,  O  grant  they  may  guide  me  safely 
Back  to  the  harbor! 


[65] 


THE     RETURN. 

Bring  to  me  in  dream,  beneficent  Hera, 
Her  entrancing  form  that  the  Grecian  heroes 
Saw  appear,  a  boon  of  the  Gods  entreated, 
After  Troy's  ruin; 

When  they  first  rowed  out  of  the  swift  Scamander 
Homeward  bound,  and  baffled  by  storm,  they  offered 
Prayer  to  thee,  and  mighty  Zeus,  and  the  lovely 
Child  of  Dione; 

So  I  pray  thee,  now,  O  Queen,  as  in  olden 
Days  for  grace  in  doing  the  things  of  beauty, 
Pure  and  lovely  things  with  the  maids  I  cherish 
In  Mitylene; 

Those  I  often  taught,  in  the  festal  circle, 
Songs  of  mine,  and  led  through  the  choric  dances, 
And  from  lands  afar  to  my  own  returning, 
Goddess,  befriend  me; 

As  the  weary  Greeks  in  their  galleys  leaving 
Ilium,  their  labor  done,  with  thy  favor, 
So  be  kind  to  me  as  I  cross  the  waters 
Homeward  to  Lesbos. 


[66] 


GORGO  AND  MNASIDICA 

And  thus  I  in  answer;  "O  gentle  maidens, 
You  will  evermore  remember  in  after 
Years  the  time  of  youth  and  our  life  together, 
Glowing  and  blissful; 

"For  the  things  we  did  were  the  pure  and  lovely, 
Many  things,  and  now  that  you  leave  the  city, 
Long  my  heart  must  throb  with  the  pain  of  parting, 
Keen  with  love's  sorrow!" 


SUPPLICATION 

Swiftly  come,  O  hasten  back,  I  implore  you, 
Gongyla,  more  sweet  to  me  than  a  rosebud, 
Come  to  my  embrace  in  your  robe  that  shimmers 
White  to  your  ankle; 

Ceaselessly  my  yearning  flutters  around  you, 
Flutters  so,  the  very  glimpse  of  your  garment 
Thrills  my  heart,  and  I  rejoice  that  it  yields  me 
Poignant  emotion; 

Once  I  murmured  petulant  words  to  Kypris, 
Though,  for  this,  her  favor  I  pray  to  lose  not, 
But  beseech  her  even  now  for  the  maiden 
Loved  as  no  other! 


[67] 


THE  WHISPER 

It  is  no  surprise  that  some  may  reproach  you, 
Envious  that  we  are  again  together, 
That  you  come  as  fond  and  dear  as  of  old  time, 
Come  when  you  should  not; 

For  we  two,  in  all  the  ways  that  we  wander, 
Ever  whisper,  each  to  the  other,  softly; 
"Is  there  maid  on  earth  that  would  fain  be  far  from 
One  that  she  loved  so?" 


ANACTORIA 

Pain  of  longing  wrings  the  heart  in  my  bosom, 
Pain  of  loss,  and  grief  for  the  days  that  blending 
Kiss  and  song  with  dreams  of  an  endless  summer, 
Came  not  to  sever; 

For  I  saw  you  then  as  I  always  see  you, 
Rather  like  a  nymph  than  a  mortal  maiden, 
Fair  as  Helen  was  in  her  golden  beauty, 
Leda's  white  daughter; 

So  you  seemed,  as  fair  as  the  fairest  woman, 
When  I  wove  with  yearning  for  you  the  garland, 
Hyacinth  and  rose,  that  hung  in  the  purple 
Dusk  at  your  doorway. 

[68] 


Hubert 
Crackanthorpe 

A  Fellside  Tragedy 


A  Fellside  Tragedy 


LOSE  by  the  tiny  church  of  Mardale, 
at  the  head  of  Haweswater  lake,  stood 
a  house  —  not  a  grey  Westmorland 
farmhouse,  flanked  by  long,  low- 
roofed,  rough-walled  buildings,  but  a 
smart  little  villa,  with  a  red-tiled 
gabled  roof,  white  stucco  walls,  a  freshly- 
painted  green  veranda,  and  a  microscopic 
lawn  in  front  dotted  with  queer-shaped  beds  of 
bright  flowers. 

Everything  was  so  strikingly  spruce  that  to  the 
stray  tourist  at  the  "Dun  Bull"  inn  it  seemed  as  if  the 
house  had  been  bodily  transported  from  the  suburbs 
of  some  city  and  set  down  in  this  lonely  Westmor- 
land valley.  The  walls  were  of  such  a  dazzling 
whiteness  that  in  summer,  when  the  sun  shone 
upon  them,  they  could  be  seen  by  the  people  in  the 
trains  over  the  side  of  Shap  fells,  as  a  glistening 
white  speck  under  the  dark  mountain  side. 

A  little  old  widow  lady  lived  there.  Years  ago 
her  father  had  rented  the  Scartop  farm  on  the  other 

[71] 


side  of  the  lake,  but  she  had  married  a  commercial 
traveler  and  had  gone  away  South.  Thirty  years 
later  she  had  come  back  to  Mardale — to  end  her 
days  in  the  peaceful  spot  where  she  had  spent  her 
childhood. 

The  sun  had  just  topped  the  hills  and  was  be- 
ginning to  clear  away  the  blue  mists  that  hung  round 
the  shores  of  the  lake.  It  was  early  yet,  and  the  vil- 
lage still  slept.  Not  a  sound  save  the  crowing  of  a 
cock  at  intervals  in  a  neighboring  farmyard.     .     .     . 

Suddenly,  from  the  little  white  house  a  girl 
stepped  into  the  road.  At  first  glance  there  seemed 
nothing  remarkable  about  her — just  a  common  farm- 
girl,  with  a  coarse,  thick-set  figure ;  but  as  she  moved 
into  the  sunlight  you  might  have  seen  that  her  face 
showed  traces  of  great  mental  suffering.  Her  eyes 
were  bloodshot,  the  lids  red  and  swollen  and  there 
was  a  hard,  set  look  about  the  mouth. 

She  glanced  up  and  down  the  road — not  leisurely 
as  if  on  the  lookout  for  a  passer-by,  with  whom  to 
gossip,  but  rapidly,  almost  stealthily.  Having  made 
sure  that  no  one  was  in  sight,  she  ran  across  the  road 
to  the  church  opposite  and  tried  the  door.  It  was 
locked.  After  a  moment's  irresolution  she  crossed 
the  churchyard  and  began  to  hurry  up  the  mountain- 
side. 

Jenny  King  was  a  true  Westmorland  lass,  born 
and  bred  on  the  fellsides,  who  had  never  travelled 
farther  from  her  native  village  than  to  Penrith  on 

[72] 


market  days.  Except  last  Whit-Monday,  when  she 
had  gone  on  an  excursion  trip  to  Keswick  with  "Long 
Joe."  "Long  Joe"  was  her  lover,  a  fine  strapping 
young  fellow  who  shepherded  for  the  new  tenant  of 
the  Scartop  farm. 

After  Michaelmas  he  was  to  have  a  rise;  and 
then  they  were  to  be  married  in  the  tiny  church  at 
the  head  of  the  lake.  But  on  Saturday  a  tragedy 
had  roused  the  sleepy  little  village  to  a  state  of  in- 
tense excitement — a  tragedy  which  had  wrecked  all 
Jenny's  hopes.  Joe  had  been  helping  the  Scartop  men 
to  load  the  hay  and  had  words  with  one  of  them  in 
the  big  thirty-acre  field.  Joe's  temper  was  a  quick 
one;  words  soon  changed  to  blows,  and  at  last  in  a 
fit  of  fury  he  picked  up  a  pitchfork  and  ran  his  com- 
panion through  the  stomach. 

A  day  and  a  half  of  hiding  in  the  forest  followed, 
till  he  had  got  enough  money  to  fly  the  country.  It 
was  Jenny  who  had  given  him  this  money.  She  had 
taken  it  from  the  well  in  her  mistress'  writing-table. 
The  theft  had  cost  her  no  moral  struggle  for  she  had 
done  it  almost  mechanically,  in  blind,  dog-like  fidelity 
to  Joe,  without  once  giving  a  thought  to  the  conse- 
quences, only  filled  with  the  idea  that  he  wanted  the 
money  and  that  she  must  get  it  for  him. 

But  as  soon  as  he  was  gone,  hastening  on  his 
way  to  Liverpool,  a  reaction  came  upon  her.  It 
was  terrible.  First,  the  grief  of  her  mistress  at  the 
disappearance  of  her  savings  cut  her  to  the  heart, 

[73] 


as  recollections  of  the  old  lady's  thousand  and  one 
little  acts  of  kindness  crowded  in  upon  her  memory; 
then  terror — vague,  sickening,  physical  terror  of  the 
police,  of  the  handcuffs,  of  the  prison. 

Towards  evening  mistrustful  looks,  whisperings, 
and  at  last  a  general  shunning  of  her  presence  told 
her  that  she  was  suspected.  Oh,  the  horror  of  the 
night  that  followed!  For  hours  she  had  lain  awake, 
motionless,  staring  fixedly  at  the  wall  by  her  bed- 
side. 

She  had  once  seen  in  a  shop  window  at  Penrith 
a  colored  picture  of  a  female  convict  crouching  in  a 
cell  with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands.  All  through 
the  night  that  picture  haunted  her;  its  crude  glaring 
colors  had  appeared  not  once,  but  a  hundred  times, 
till  it  covered  the  walls  of  her  room.  Wherever  she 
turned  her  eyes  she  was  confronted  with  it;  there 
was  no  escape.  And  gradually  as  the  night  wore1 
on,  the  seated  figure  grew  more  and  more  like  her- 
self, till  she  could  see  on  its  forehead  the  bruise 
which  she  had  got  when  she  fell  down  Farmer 
Langley's  dairy  steps  last  week. 

At  last  she  fell  asleep,  but  still  the  figure  pur- 
sued her.  The  nightmare  came,  and  she  was  shiver- 
ing, chained  to  the  bare  stone  floor  of  the  prison  cell, 
doomed  forever  and  ever.     .     .     . 

The  girl  could  bear  it  no  longer.  Tomorrow 
they  would  come  and  take  her,  and  she  would  become 
like  the  figure  in  the  picture.    She  must  fly.    Where? 

[74] 


She  never  once  gave  a  thought  to  that.  Only  to 
escape  to  the  fells  away  from  the  horrible  convict- 
woman! 

.  .  .  .  On,  on  she  climbed,  now  across 
stretches  of  grey  shingle,  which  she  sent  clattering 
down  the  mountain  side,  now  up  to  her  knees  in  the 
bracken,  now  picking  her  way  over  a  crowd  of  boul- 
ders huddled  together  in  savage  disorder. 

.  .  .  .  On,  on  she  climbed,  while  her  heart 
throbbed  excitedly  and  great  beads  of  sweat  started 
from  her  forehead.  At  last  she  reached  the  top  and 
threw  herself  gasping  on  the  grass.  There  was  a 
buzzing  in  her  ears  and  a  heavy  thud,  thud,  thud 
against  her  temples.  Yet  this  sense  of  physical  ex- 
haustion was  a  relief  after  the  terrible  mental  strain 
of  the  last  three  days. 

Then  by  degrees  it  passed.  From  where  she  lay 
she  could  just  see  the  thatched  roof  of  her  father's 
cottage.  There  was  the  road  along  which  as  a  little 
girl  she  had  trudged  to  school,  day  after  day,  sum- 
mer and  winter;  next  her  mind  wandered  to  Joe — 
to  Joe  before  the  murder — she  thought  of  the  first 
time  that  he  had  kissed  her,  one  blustering  winter 
afternoon  when  she  had  gone  to  fetch  the  milk  from 
the  Scartop  farm,  of  the  trip  to  Keswick,  and  of  the 
silver  brooch  that  he  had  bought  her  there. 

These  recollections  were  not  painful  to  Jenny. 
She  was  reviewing  them  calmly  as  if  they  were  inci- 
dents in  another's  life,  when  with  a  sharp  spasm  of 

[75] 


pain  came  back  the  thought  of  her  mistress'  grief. 
Oh!  she  was  sorry,  bitterly  sorry  for  her — yet  there 
was  no  self-upbraiding.  It  was  the  inevitable.  She 
had  done  the  only  thing  possible.  Joe  had  to  be 
saved. 

Was  he  already  at  Liverpool?  she  wondered. 
How  long  would  he  be  on  the  sea?  Perhaps  he  would 
go  on  a  ship  like  the  one  in  the  picture  hanging  in 
the  waiting-room  at  Penrith  Station.  In  the  picture 
the  deck  was  black  with  passengers.  Perhaps  Joe 
was  one  of  them.  Gradually  her  thoughts  began  to 
wander,  and  then,  and  then  she  was  asleep.     .     .     . 

When  she  woke  the  sun  was  high  in  the  sky.  It 
was  a  minute  or  two  before  she  realized  how  she 
came  to  be  lying  there  on  the  wet  grass — she  shivered. 

Look!  Some  people  were  crossing  the  road  and 
coming  toward  the  mountain.  Perhaps  it  was  a 
search  party.  She  must  be  gone — farther  away, 
where  they  could  not  find  her.  She  dare  not  get  up 
lest  her  figure  should  be  seen  by  those  below  stand- 
ing out  against  the  sky-line;  so  she  crawled  away 
from  the  mountain  edge;  then  got  up  and  ran. 

The  range  of  mountains  was  so  broad  at  this 
point  that  the  summit  formed  a  sort  of  table-land 
several  miles  in  width.  It  was  a  barren  expanse,  not 
a  tree,  nor  a  shrub,  only  bushy  tufts  of  coarse  grass 
growing  right  down  to  the  edges  of  the  pools  of 
brackish  water,  and  here  and  there  like  great  flesh 
wounds  in  the  earth's  surface,  gaping   peat  hags, 

[76] 


with  black,  shiny,  dripping  sides.  It  was  a  dreary 
spot  even  on  this  gorgeous  summer  day. 

Jenny  hurried  on,  driving  before  her  a  little  flock 
of  black-legged  mountain  sheep,  till  she  had  crossed 
the  range.  The  great  lake  of  Ullswater  lay  at  her 
feet,  glistening  like  a  sheet  of  molten  silver;  beyond, 
the  bare,  round  backs  of  the  lake  district  mountains 
rose,  one  behind  the  other,  till  they  melted  away  to  a 
purple  haze  on  the  horizon.  She  stood  for  a  moment, 
gazing  stupidly  at  the  glorious  scene ;  then  she  slipped 
down  into  a  peat  hag. 

When  she  came  to  herself  the  white,  weird  light 
of  the  moon  was  shining  and  a  few  fleecy  clouds  were 
chasing  one  another  lazily  across  the  sky.  From  far 
away  below  came  the  bleating  of  sheep;  then  all  was 
still.     .     .     . 

Hark!  What  was  that?  A  piercing  whistle  burst 
through  the  silence  of  the  night.  Another,  then 
another,  followed  by  a  cry  which  made  Jenny's  blood 
run  cold.  It  was  her  own  name  ringing  through  the 
night. 

With  the  instinct  of  a  hunted  animal,  she  held 
her  breath,  put  her  fingers  between  her  teeth  to  keep 
them  from  chattering,  and  flattened  herself  against 
the  soft,  clammy  peat.  Nearer,  nearer  they  came. 
Jenny!  Jenny!  and  the  cry  was  re-echoed  by  the 
mountains  opposite  till  it  seemed  to  her  fevered  imag- 
ination as  if  the  evil  spirits  of  the  mountains  round 
were  tossing  her  name  backwards  and  forwards  to 

[77] 


each  other  in  diabolical  mockery.    The  shouts  grew 
fainter  and  fainter;  at  length  all  was  still  again. 

But  now  came  strange,  bitter  regrets  that  they 
had  not  found  her.  How  horrible  the  stillness  was! 
She  tried  to  call  after  them,  but  the  sound  of  her  own 
voice  terrified  her  so  that  she  gave  it  up  in  despair. 
The  pains,  too,  which  she  had  forgotten  in  the  mo- 
ment of  mortal  anxiety,  came  back. 

What  was  that  white  thing  gleaming  on  the 
stones  over  there?  Only  the  skeleton  of  a  sheep, 
probably  starved  to  death  in  winter.  Jenny  shud- 
dered and  her  teeth  began  to  chatter  again,  furiously. 
Oh,  anything  but  that !  The  life  of  a  convict  woman 
rather  than  such  a  Death.  She  must  go  back  and 
give  herself  up.  Surely  someone  would  have  pity 
on  her.  She  burst  into  a  fit  of  hysterical  crying. 
Then  she  struggled  forward.  Her  strength  was 
now  almost  spent.  She  was  shivering  all  over,  yet 
her  head  seemed  on  fire,  and  hunger — a  devouring, 
overwhelming  hunger  began  to  gnaw  her. 

Still  she  crawled  on  desperately;  now  falling  into 
a  peat  hag,  now  stumbling  over  a  heap  of  shingle. 
Thus  down  the  mountainside,  while  her  knees 
knocked  together  at  every  step. 

When  she  reached  Farmer  Langley's  stead  she 
had  not  the  courage  to  knock  for  admittance;  so  she 
threw  herself  on  a  half-finished  hay-rick  and,  cover- 
ing herself  over  with  hay,  slept. 

[78] 


Two  hours  later,  when  the  sun  ushered  in  another 
gorgeous  June  morning,  Farmer  Langley's  men  came 
and  finished  the  rick.     .     .     . 

As  the  days  went  by  a  strange,  horrible  odor 
came  from  the  rick-yard.  They  pulled  down  the  rick 
and  found  poor  Jenny's  body.  The  forks  of  the  men 
had  pierced  her  through  and  through.  Was  it  these 
wounds  that  had  killed  her,  or  had  she  passed  away 
before  the  rising  of  the  sun? 

Who  shall  tell? 


[79] 


Laurence  Housman 

cftfr.  Enoch  Jones 
§Mrs.  Enoch  Jones 


Mr.  Enoch  Jones 


HAT   we    were   still   lovers   after 
twenty  years  of  married  life 
Is  proved  by  this: 

We  always  took  our  bath 

Together. 

It  was  very  nice, 

It  was  also  economical, 

And  it  saved  time. 
One  day,  in  the  nice  hot  water,  she  fell  asleep, 
While  I  went  on  soaping  myself. 
With  the  tap  still  running 
I  got  out  to  answer  the  telephone. 
My  wife  remained  asleep, 
The  water  got  into  her  lungs 
And  drowned  her. 
It  was  very  unfortunate 
And  unexpected. 

And  so  by  getting  out  of  hot  water  I  got  into  it 
And  was  hanged  for  it. 
It  is  strange  how  one  takes  trouble  and  tries  to 

be  economical 
And  fails. 


[83] 


Mrs,  Enoch  Jones 


He  was  always  wanting  me  to  bathe  him — 

A  perfect  baby! 

Luxuriously  lazy,  warm-water  crazy 

(That  is  a  rhyme,  but  we  will  overlook  it)- 

No  wonder  I  tired  of  him! 

So  one  day  in  my  bath — 

Our  bath—* 

I  pretended  to  go  to  sleep 

And  left  him  to  wash  himself 

His  own  way. 

He  took  a  long  time  over  it,  till  the 

Telephone  called  him. 

Then  I  made  up  my  mind  that 

I  had  had  enough  of  him — 

Of  sharing  his  bath  water,  and  the  soap, 

And  the  washing  flannel, 

And  all  the  rest  of  it 

And  the  unrest  of  it. 

So  I  drowned  myself. 

What  else  did  he  expect? 


[85] 


Selwyn  Image 

ToL 


ToL 


WO  weeks — just — since  first  we  met! 

You'd  toyed  with  countless  other  men; 
But  me  you'd  never  seen  till  then, 
Lynnette. 

You  bared  your  body  warm  and  white, 
Your  soft  breasts  rose- tipped,  supple  thighs: 
You  held  back  nothing  from  my  sighs 
And  sight. 

You  gave  me  all  to  sight  and  kiss : 

Ah !  God,  what  dreams  were  true  at  last ! 
Nay,  what  dreams  equal  in  the  past 
To  this! 

Two  weeks  since — just !    You  know  me  now, 
And  knowledge  makes  you  shy:  you  hide, 
Dear,  dear  Lynette,  your  body's  pride, 
And  vow 

You  dare  not.    So  Love  tortures  one : 
Unveils  a  moment  at  the  first, 
Then  hides  and  leaves  you  just  athirst, 
Undone. 


[89] 


Arthur  Machen 

English  and  Irish 
My  Murderer 


English  and  Irish 


OBODY  needs  to  be  reminded  of  the 
serious  side  of  the  Sinn  Fein  move- 
ment.    Whether   you    are    an    elderly 
major-general    with    a    shepherd's 
»plaid    tie,    tied    by    your    own    hands 
into   a   neat   bow,    a   white   moustache,    and 
political  convictions   that  would  have  made 
Castlereagh  seem  a  Radical;  or  whether  you 
wear  long  hair  and  a  scarlet  flopping  tie  and 
think  that  Bolshevism  is  a  weak  compromise:    in 
either  case  you  know  that  the  Irish  affair  is  a  very 
serious  one.    But  it  has  its  comic  side. 

Long  years  ago — I  think  it  was  before  Sinn  Fein 
had  come  into  formal  existence — I  read  an  article  by 
an  eminent  Irish  man  of  letters.  That  article  de- 
nounced the  English  language. 

The  writer  pointed  out  that  English  had  become 
quite  hopeless  as  a  medium  of  fine  literature.  It  was 
vulgarised  in  every  way.  Its  fine  edges  had  been 
worn  down  and  blunted.  It  abounded  with  every 
kind  of  ungrammatical  colloquialism.  Wretches — 
generally  known  as  journalists — had  been  the  worst 

[93] 


of  offenders,  debasing  a  coinage  that  was  once  bright 
and  golden  with  all  sorts  of  neologisms  and  unneces- 
sary borrowings  from  other  languages.  English,  in  a 
word,  was  out  of  the  question  for  a  man  who  wanted 
to  do  serious  literary  work;  and  the  distinguished 
author  expressed  his  intention  of  learning  Irish,  a 
pure,  poetic,  uncommercialised,  unvulgarised  tongue. 
Then,  he  said,  he  would  write  his  future  books  in 
Irish. 

Years  after  that  I  met  him  face  to  face.  I  re- 
minded him  of  the  famous  article  and  tried  to  urge  a 
word  or  two  in  defence  of  the  language  of  Shakes- 
peare— and  the  novelette.  But  he  would  not  budge; 
he  said  that  he  held  to  every  word  of  that  article  of 
his.  But  he  is  still  writing  his  admirable  books  in 
English. 

Then — this  was  also  in  the  long  ago  of  the  'nine- 
ties of  last  century — I  met  another  and  an  equally 
distinguished  Irish  author.  He  said  nothing  about 
the  vileness  of  the  English  tongue;  and,  indeed,  if 
he  had  argued  against  English  I  should  have  con- 
futed him  by  quotations  from  his  own  poems.  But 
he  confessed  to  me,  frankly,  that,  though  he  at- 
tended an  Irish  class  once  a  week,  he  had  made  but 
little  progress.    He  is  still  writing  in  English. 

And  then,  to  quote  a  wholly  undistinguished 
instance,  I  myself  took  it  into  my  head,  when  I  was 
about  50,  that  I  ought  to  know  the  language  of  my 
fathers,  which  happens  to  be  Welsh.    So  I  applied  to 

[94] 


a  Welsh  literary  friend,  and  he  supplied  me  with  a 
little  pile  of  Welsh  books :  grammar,  dictionary,  exer- 
cises, First  Reader  and  such  elementary  stuff,  with  a 
copy  of  the  Mabinogion,  the  famous  collection  of 
Welsh  tales,  that  I  might  apply  myself  to  it  so  soon 
as  I  got  a  real  grip  of  the  language. 

I  looked  into  the  Grammar.  I  mastered  the  fact 
that  the  Welsh  for  "father"  was  "tad."  That  seemed 
simple.  But,  going  on,  it  appeared  that  under  certain 
circumstances  the  Welsh  for  father  was  "dad."  Well, 
there  was  reason  in  that,  too.  I  seemed  to  have  heard 
the  term  on  the  lips  of  the  "cythrawl  Sais" — other- 
wise, the  unpleasant  English.  But  as  I  progressed 
further  and  found  that  father  might  also  be  "thad," 
and  occasionally  "nhad,"  I  perceived  that  I  was  too 
old.  And  when  it  came  to  addressing  the  lady  of  my 
choice  as  "nghariad"  and  pretending  it  meant  "dar- 
ling," I  broke  down.  I  am  still  writing  in  English; 
or,  at  least,  I  hope  so. 

Still,  they  say  in  Ireland  that  the  Irish  tongue  is 
being  successfully  revived;  that  it  will  once  more 
become  the  language  of  the  Irish  people.  It  may  be 
so;  but  all  I  can  say  is  that  this  is  carrying  not 
merely  self-determination,  but  determination,  very 
far  indeed.  That  is,  if  it  is  proposed  that  middle- 
aged  men  shall  learn  it.  If  the  children  are  taught 
Irish  from  their  earliest  years,  the  Sinn  Fein  dream 
may  be  realised.  But  the  elderly  are  past  "nghariad," 
past  learning  that  "sidhe"  in  Irish  spells  "she." 

[95] 


My  Murderer 


LA.NY,  many  years  ago  Oscar 
Wilde  wrote  a  brilliant  essay  on 
"The  Decay  of  Lying."  It  was, 
really,  on  the  decay  of  romance 
writing.  There  were  admirable  things  in  it.  For 
instance,  this  on  the  late  Henry  James  —  I  quote 
from  memory — "He  writes  novels  as  if  novel  writ- 
ing were  a  painful  duty." 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  foundation  for  the 
whimsicalities  of  the  essay  then;  there  is  more  now, 
and  if  we  had  a  De  Quincy  in  these  days  there  would 
be  an  essay  "On  the  Decay  of  Murder,  Considered  as 
One  of  the  Fine  Arts."  Really,  this  Landru  person ! 
Compared  with  the  great  murderers,  the  classic 
artists,  as  it  were,  he  is  a  Fergus  Hume  or  Guy 
Boothby.  There  is  no  subtlety  about  him;  he  loads 
his  double-tie  brush  with  scarlet  paint ;  he  is  a  scenic 
artist  rather  than  an  artist.  As  Coleridge  so  justly 
observes,  the  supreme  artist  obtains  his  terrific,  soul- 
shattering  effects  by  means  which  seem  in  themselves 
insignificant ;  it  is  the  bunglers  who  have  to  paint  the 

[97] 


villa  red  before  they  can  win  attention.  I  may  be  par- 
tial, but  I  cannot  help  putting  My  Murderer — second 
or  third  rate  assassin  as  he  was — before  this  ostenta- 
tious Landru.  We  are  much  too  ready  in  England 
to  neglect  home  talent  for  foreign;  there  is  not  a 
single  French  detective  story  fit  to  compare  with 
Sherlock  Holmes  at  his  best. 

But  My  Murderer?  I  call  him  so  with  pride  that 
is,  I  trust,  pardonable,  because  he  was  the  only  mur- 
derer, to  the  best  of  my  belief,  that  I  have  ever  met. 
He  is  otherwise  known  as  the  Moat  Farm  murderer. 
His  name  was  Dougal.  Oddly  enough,  a  common 
interest  brought  us  together. 

In  those  days  I  owned  a  cottage  on  the  Chiltern 
Hills,  200  yards  and  more  from  an  ill-frequented  road. 
Behind  it  fields  and  a  deep  beechwood  going  down  to 
Wormesley.  I  believe  it  was  this  name  that  captured 
Dougal.  All  true  artists  recognise  the  enormous 
importance  of  place  names,  and  Dougal  could  not  fail 
to  perceive  the  exquisite  fitness  of  this  name, 
Wormesley,  for  his  purpose. 

For,  the  matter  was :  I  wanted  to  let  the  cottage 
on  Turville  Common,  and  Mr.  Dougal  saw  the  adver- 
tisement and  called  on  me  in  my  London  chambers. 
With  him  came  the  lady.  I  could  write  a  volume 
about  her.  I  can  only  say  here  that  she — she  is  a 
type — is  aged  forty-five — fifty-five — is  dressed  in 
black  and  carries  a  small  black  bag.  If  you  like  to 
follow  her  into  the  obscurest  bar  of  some  obscure 

[98] 


house  of  refreshment,  you  may  note  her  sliding  a 
small  bottle  out  of  this  bag  over  the  counter,  and 
replacing  it  after  the  filling  process. 

Well,  I  must  cut  the  story  short.  Mr.  Dougal 
took  my  cottage  for  himself  and  the  lady,  whom  he 
called  falsely,  but  fondly,  Mrs.  Dougal.  He  had  his 
reserves.  He  did  not  mention  the  purpose  for  which 
he  required  the  little  place — the  murder  of  the  lady — 
or  I  could  have  told  him  that  the  next  house  was 
much  too  near.  Possibly,  he  thought  I  had  sup- 
pressed material  facts,  for  he  did  me  down  over  three 
tons  of  hay,  won  a  county-court  action  which  I  was 
fool  enough  to  bring  against  him,  and,  with  a  final 
superb  gesture,  went  away  without  paying  any  rent. 

The  lady — with  the  little  property — had  left 
before.  She  saw,  I  think,  that  something  was  amiss. 
It  was  some  few  years  before  Dougal  found  the  more 
suitable  Moat  Farm  in  Essex  and  a  lady  of  a  more 
trusting  disposition. 


[99] 


W.  Clark  Russell 

Jack  and  Jill 


Jack  and  Jill 


HERE    are    you    going    to,    my 

pretty  Jack?" 
"Going  to  sea,  and  don't  mean  to 

come  back." 

"Ha'n't  you  got  nothing  upon  you  that  chinks?" 
"How's  a  brass  farden  to  stand  you  in  drinks?" 
"Pawn  that  new  weskit — it's  good  of  its  kind." 
"Take  off  my  weskit  and  nothing's  behind." 
"What  of  that  'ankerchief  tied  round  your  neck?" 
"What's  left  to  wear  when  I'm  called  up  on  deck?" 
"I  counts  in  your  boots  twenty  whiskies  in  pegs." 
"That  'ud  be  right  if  I  wore  wooden  legs." 
"Say,  pretty  Jack,  what's  to  do  with  my  thirst?" 
"Pop  your  false  teeth,  you  might  try  that  on  first; 
Next  take  your  wig  to  old  Levi  the  Jew, 
He'll  give  you  enough  to  stand  glasses  for  two." 
"Git  on,  you  scowbanker !    You  rogue  to  the  ground ; 
'Ow  I  hope  in  a  few  days  to  larn  that  yer  drown'd !" 


[103] 


(O 


Floyd  Dell 

Joys 


Joys 


'VE  wooed  a  Matron,  kissed  a  Maid, 
I've  plied  the  Loafer's  easy  trade, 
I've  won  a  Race,  and  licked  a  Man, 
Like  any  since  the  World  began, 
My  Name  it  has  been  printed  down 
In  Black  and  White  before  the  Town, 
I've  cooked  my  Dish,  and  caught  my  Fish, 
And  had  come  true  my  dearest  Wish, 
But  there's  no  Joy  in  all  of  this, 
In  bruited  Fame  or  covert  Kiss, 
Like  that  of  reading,  hot  and  cold, 
A  Poem  not  three  Minutes  old! 


[107] 


Andrew  Lang 

A  Chortle 


A  Chortle 


>WO  novels  of  Boisgobey's 
Are  coming  out  next  week! 

A  pleasant  place  the  globe  is, 
Two  novels  of  Boisgobey's! 
Their  cunning  plot  to  probe  is 
The  very  thing  I  seek. 
Two  novels  of  Boisgobey's 
Are  coming  out  next  week! 


[in] 


Lafcadio  Hearn 

The  Chemise  of  Margarita  Pareja 


The  Chemise 
of  ^Margarita  Pareja 


T  IS  NOT  IMPROBABLE  that  some  of  my 
readers  may  have  often  heard  the  old  women 
of  Lima  exclaim,  when  complaining  of  the 
high  price  of  an  article: 

"What? — why   that  is  dearer   than   the 
chemise  of  Margarita  Pareja!" 

I  should  have  sought  hard  to  find  out  who 
this  Margarita  Pareja  was,  whose  chemise  is 
so  famous,  had  I  not  stumbled  across  an 
article  written  by  Don  Ildefonso  Antonio  Ber- 
mejo,  author  of  a  famous  work  on  Paraguay, 
who,  although  he  touches  but  very  lightly 
upon  the  subject  of  the  girl  and  her  chemise,  never- 
theless has  enabled  me  to  solve  the  riddle,  and  to 
bring  to  light  the  facts  of  the  story  you  are  going 
to  read. 

I. 

Margarita  Pareja  lived  in  1776  or  thereabouts; 
and  was  the  most  beloved  and  petted  daughter  of 

[115] 


Don  Raimundo  Pareja,  gentleman  of  Santiago,  and 
collector-general  of  Callao. 

The  girl  belonged  to  that  class  of  Lima  beau- 
ties whose  charms  would  captivate  the  very  devil 
himself,  and  make  him  cross  himself  and  even  drive 
him  to  distraction. 

About  that  time  there  arrived  from  Spain  a  gal- 
lant youth  named  Don  Luis  de  Alcazar.  He  had  a 
rich  bachelor  uncle  in  Lima,  an  old-fashioned  Ara- 
gonese,  exceedingly  haughty,  and  unspeakably 
proud  of  his  ancestry. 

It  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  while  awaiting 
the  chance  to  inherit  from  his  uncle,  Luis  lived  as 
poorly  as  a  church  mouse,  and  was  continually 
haunted  by  melancholy.  When  I  say  that  his  small- 
est requirements  were  obtained  upon  credit,  to  be 
paid  for  as  soon  as  he  could  mend  his  fortune,  I 
believe  that  I  state  his  condition  with  sufficient 
truthfulness. 

On  the  occasion  of  the  procession  of  Santa  Rosa, 
Alcazar  first  saw  the  beautiful  Margarita.  The  girl 
caught  his  eye  and  ensnared  his  heart.  He  pre- 
sented her  with  a  bunch  of  flowers;  and  although 
she  responded  neither  by  a  direct  yes  or  no,  she 
allowed  it  to  be  inferred  by  her  smiles  and  other 
artifices  of  the  feminine  arsenal  that  the  lad  was  by 
no  means  displeasing  to  her.  The  truth,  as  I  should 
confess  it,  is  that  they  fell  over  head  and  ears  in  love 
with  each  other. 

[116] 


As  the  lovers  forgot  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
arithmetic,  Don  Luis  never  dreamed  that  his  pres- 
ent poverty  could  be  any  obstacle  to  the  success  of 
his  love  affair.  He  called  upon  Margarita's  father, 
and  without  any  preamble  whatever  boldly  de- 
manded the  hand  of  his  daughter. 

Don  Raimundo  did  not  entertain  the  petition 
favorably;  and  dismissed  the  postulant  with  many 
elaborate  courtesies,  observing  that  Margarita  was 
still  too  much  of  a  child  to  think  of  marriage,  and 
that  in  spite  of  her  eighteen  summers  she  was  still 
attached  to  her  dolls. 

But  that  was  not  the  true  cause  of  the  refusal. 
The  fact  was  that  Don  Raimundo  did  not  care  to 
become  the  father-in-law  of  a  pobreton  (poor  devil)  ; 
and  he  said  as  much  in  confidence  to  one  of  his 
friends,  who  went  directly  with  the  tale  to  Don 
Honorato,  as  the  proud  Aragonese  uncle  was  named. 
The  latter,  who  was  haughtier  that  the  Cid  himself, 
bounded  with  rage  at  the  news,  and  cried:  "What! 
Insult  my  nephew!  Many  would  be  only  too  happy 
to  have  a  chance  of  an  alliance  with  that  boy ; — than 
whom  there  is  not  a  finer  lad  in  all  Lima.  The  inso- 
lence of  the  low-born  clown  alone  betrays  itself  in 
such  a  fashion  as  this.  But,  after  all,  what  has  this 
miserable,  pitiful  collectorcillo  to  do  with  me?" 

Margarita,  who  was  born  a  century  before  her 
time,  suddenly  became  as  hysterical  as  a  maiden  of 
our  own  era;  she  sobbed  and  pulled  out  her  hair  and 

[117] 


fainted;  and  if  she  did  not  threaten  to  poison  her- 
self, it  was  because  matches  had  not  yet  been 
invented. 

Margarita  lost  her  rosiness,  and  grew  visibly 
thinner  and  weaker  day  by  day;  talked  about  becom- 
ing a  nun,  and  absolutely  refused  to  listen  to  reason. 
She  would  cry  "O  de  Luis  o  de  Dios!"  (either  Luis 
or  God)  every  time  the  hysterics  came  on,  which 
was  very  often.  The  Santiago  caballero  became 
finally  much  alarmed,  and  called  in  doctors  and 
nurses — all  of  whom  swore  that  the  girl  was  going 
into  consumption,  and  that  the  only  medicine  which 
could  save  her  was  not  sold  in  apothecaries'  shops. 

"Either  marry  her  to  the  lad  she  loves  or  make 
her  coffin  ready!"   Such  was  the  doctor's  ultimatum. 

So  Don  Raimundo,  remembering  only  that  he 
was  a  father,  rushed  without  hat  or  cloak  to  the  res- 
idence of  Don  Honorato  and  said  to  him: 

"I  have  come  to  beg  your  consent  to  the  mar- 
riage of  your  nephew  with  Margarita  tomorrow 
morning;  for  otherwise  the  girl  will  die." 

"Oh,  utterly  impossible!  utterly,  utterly  impos- 
sible ! !"  ironically  responded  the  uncle.  "My  nephew 
is  only  a  poor  devil,  and  the  man  you  must  seek  for 
your  daughter's  husband  is  a  rich  man,  a  man  of 
money,  a  man  of  large  resources!" 

The  dialogue  was  a  stormy  one.  The  more  Don 
Raimundo  supplicated,  the  more  Don  Honorato 
seemed  to  harden  his  heart;  and  both  were  about  to 

[118] 


retire  from  the  scene,  when  Don  Luis  ventured  to 
break  in  upon  the  discussion,  saying: 

"But,  uncle,  it  is  not  Christianlike  to  kill  those 
who  have  done  no  wrong." 

"Indeed!  Am  I  to  understand  that  you  wish  to 
sacrifice  yourself  for  that  girl's  sake?" 

"With  all  my  heart  and  soul,  Uncle  y  Senor." 

"Very  well,  boy;  I  consent,  since  it  seems  to 
give  you  pleasure;  but  only  upon  one  condition,  and 
that  is  this:  Don  Raimundo  must  swear  to  me  upon 
the  Sacred  Host  that  he  will  not  present  his 
daughter  with  one  single  ochavo,  nor  bequeath  her 
in  his  will  even  so  much  as  a  real." 

This  renewed  the  quarrel  in  a  new  form. 

"But,  man,"  cried  Don  Raimundo,  "my  daughter 
has  a  dowry  of  twenty  thousand  duros!" 

"We  renounce  the  dowry.  The  girl  must  come 
to  the  house  of  her  husband  with  nothing  but  her 
shift  on." 

"At  least  permit  me  to  marry  her  with  some 
little  formality — her  trousseau  and  furniture  and — " 

"No,  sir — not  so  much  as  a  pin.  If  you  do  not 
like  my  terms,  renounce  them,  and  let  the  little  one 
die!" 

"But,  Don  Honorato,  try  to  be  reasonable.  My 
daughter  must  at  least  have  a  chemise,  in  the  way 
of  wedding  apparel." 

"Well,  I  will  yield  this  point,  lest  you  might 
think  me  obstinate.    I  consent  that  you  give  her  a 

[119] 


bridal  chemise;  and  now  let  us  end  the  discussion." 
Don  Raimundo  and  Don  Honorato  rode  to  San 
Francisco  at  daybreak  next  morning;  and  while 
kneeling  at  mass  during  the  elevation  of  the  Host, 
the  former  swore  according  to  the  compact: 

"I  swear  not  to  give  my  daughter  anything 
except  the  bridal  chemise.  May  God  judge  me  if  I 
perjure  myself." 

II. 

And  Don  Raimundo  Pareja  kept  his  oath  to  the 
letter;  for  neither  during  his  life  nor  at  his  death 
did  he  ever  afterward  give  his  daughter  anything 
worth  a  maravedi. 

The  Flemish  laces  which  adorned  the  bridal 
chemise  cost  two  thousand  seven  hundred  duros, 
according  to  Bermejo,  who  seems  to  have  copied  the 
statement  from  the  Relaciones  Secretas  of  Ulloa  and 
Don  Jorge  Juan. 

Item,  the  string  which  confined  the  chemise  at 
the  neck  was  a  chain  of  brilliants  valued  at  thirty 
thousand  morlascoes. 

Assuredly,  Margarita  Parejo's  chemise  deserved 
its  fame. 


[120] 


Wilbur  Underwood 

Translations 


Verlaine:  Pierrot 

Woman  and  Cat 
Shells 

Baudelaire:  To  Death 


Pierrot 

(Verlaine) 


O  more  the  old  tune's  dreamer  he, 

moon-led, 
Who    from    high    panels    laughing 

used  to  peer; 
His  gaiety  like  his  candle  long  is  dead, 
His  ghost  it  is  that  haunts  us,  thin  and  clear ; 
And  mid  the  terror  of  the  lightning's  glare 
Blown  by  cold  winds  his  pale  blouse  seems  a  shroud, 
His  mouth  wide-gaping  with  a  frightful  air 
Under  the  bite  of  worms  seems  howling  loud; 
And  with  the  sound  of  night-birds'  flight  through 

space 
His  white  sleeves  on  the  bleak  void  vaguely  trace 
Meaningless  signs  to  which  none  makes  reply; 
His  eyes  are  great  holes,  phosphor-rimmed  and  jet, 
And  flour-white  powder  makes  more  dreadful  yet 
His  face,  sharp-nosed  like  one  about  to  die. 


[123] 


Woman  and  Qat 


(Ferlaine) 


HE  frolicked  with  her  cat 
And  it  was  a  wonderful  sight 
To  see  the  white  hand  and 
the  white  paw 
Sport  in  the  dim  twilight 


Under  her  black-thread  mitts, 
The  wretch,  she  hid  unseen 
Her  murderous  agate  nails, 
Sharp  as  a  knife  and  keen. 

The  cat  played  primness  too, 
And  her  pointed  claws  withdrew, 
But  naught  lost  the  Devil  thereby. 

And  in  the  room  where  sonorous 
Rang  her  airy  laughter  high 
Shone  four  spots  of  phosphorus. 


[125] 


Shells 

(Verlaine) 


ACH  crusted  shell  that  doth  enhance 
The  grotto  where  our  love-tide  rolls 
Hath  its  sweet  significance. 

One  hath  the  purple  of  sour  souls 
Caught  from  our  heart's  blood  in  the 

stress 
When  flaming  love  our  sense  controls. 

This  one  affects  thy  languorousness 
And  pallor  when  with  love  remote 
Thou  lov'st  my  mocking  eyes  the  less. 

And  this  one  counterfeits  the  note 
Of  thine  ear  and  that  one,  see, 
The  rosy  fullness  of  thy  throat. 

But  one  among  them  troubles  me. 


[127] 


To  Death 

(Baudelaire) 


DEATH,    thou    captain    old,    time 
strikes,  thine  anchor  lift, 

We   weary   of   this   land,   O    death 
unfurl  for  flight; 

Though  black  be  all  the  skies  and 
seas  wherethrough  we  drift 
Our  hearts  thou  knowest  well  are  full  of  radiant  light. 

Pour  us  thy  poison  out  and  may  it  hearten  well; 
We  long,  so  much  this  fire  burns  fierce  our  worn 

brain  through, 
To  plunge  deep  in  the  gulf,  be  heaven  our  port  or  hell, 
Plunge  deep  down  the  unknown  to  find  a  world  that's 

new. 


[129] 


The  Bow 

(Charles  Cros) 


F  the  lady's  hair  there  was  no  dearth, 
Gold  as  the  grain  in  Autumn's  girth 
It  rippled  down  unto  the  earth. 


Her   strange   low   voice   you   need 
must  mark, 
It  seemed  the  voice  of  a  Serapharch; 
Green  eyes  looked  out  from  lashes  dark. 

He  never  feared  a  rival  more 
While  he  traversed  vale  and  shore 
Bearing  her  on  his  horse  before. 

For  on  all  of  that  countree 
She  had  looked  full  haughtily 
Until  him  she  came  to  see. 

And  love's  strength  smote  her  with  such  dole 
That  for  smiles  and  mockings  droll 
A  sickness  crept  upon  her  soul. 

[131] 


And  mid  her  last  caresses  there: 
"Make  a  bowstring  of  my  hair 
To  charm  your  other  ladies  fair." 

Then  with  a  long  sweet  kiss  of  woe 
She  died;  and  straight  the  knight  did  go 
And  of  her  hair  he  made  a  bow. 

Like  a  blindman  making  groan, 

On  a  viol  of  Cremone 

Played  he,  begging  alms  with  moan. 

And  all  who  heard  those  sobbing  strings 
Were  drunk  with  joyous  shudderings, 
The  dead  lived  in  their  quiverings. 

The  King  was  charmed  and  favoured  him; 
He  chanced  to  please  the  dark  Queen's  whim 
And  fled  with  her  in  the  moonlight  dim. 

But  each  time  that  he  touched  it,  so 
To  play  unto  the  Queen,  the  bow 
Reproached  him  mournfully  and  low. 

And  at  the  sound  of  that  deathstrain 
They  died  halfway  adown  the  plain; 
The  dead  took  back  her  pledge  again. 

Took  back  her  hair  that  knew  no  dearth, 
That,  gold  as  the  grain  in  Autumn's  girth, 
Rippled  down  unto  the  earth. 

[132] 


Joseph 
Hergesheimer 

The  Little  Kanaka 


The  Little  Kanaka 


HE  was  in  a  cellar,  what,  I  believe,  in 
a  connection  now  lost,  was  called  a 
Keller,  at  the  Hotel  Richmond.  There 
were  seven  of  them  on  the  platform, 
six  men  and  the  girl,  all  from  Hawaii. 
And,  while  the  men  talked  together, 
or  even  smiled,  she  was  silent  and  grave.  The  ceil- 
ing was  low,  the  floor  was  laid  in  cement,  and 
electric  fans  tore  into  impalpable  streamers  the 
dead  penned  air.  They,  the  Kanakas,  were  there  to 
play  for  the  dancing,  yet  when  they  began  the  heavy 
and  stupid  beat  of  a  piano  drowned,  practically, 
whatever  delicacy  the  strings  of  their  guitars  might 
otherwise  have  held. 

The  piano,  however,  was  necessary  to  mark  the 
beat  to  which  the  shuffling  couples  danced;  couples 
at  once  young  and  without  the  gaiety  and  freedom 
of  youth,  revolving,  in  hideous  and  constricting 
clothes,  with  blanched  and  empty  faces.  The  Kan- 
aka girl's  face  was  still,  but  its  immobility  was 
stamped    with    an   unfathomable    brown    primitive 

[135] 


mystery.  Yet  it  bore,  as  well,  a  perceptible  degree 
of  memory,  utterly  self-contained;  a  wondering,  too 
deep  even  for  thought,  at  the  strangeness  of  fate. 
And  the  quality  of  that  memory,  in  a  cellar,  on  a 
narrow  platform  of  boards,  in  the  stirred  exhausted 
air,  created  suddenly  an  illusion  of  the  dazzling 
rush  of  water  and  sun  over  the  South  Seas. 

I  recalled  how,  in  his  memoir,  Captain  Whalley 
spoke  of  making — after  the  frozen  unendurable 
waste  of  Cape  Horn — the  harbor  of  Papeete;  where, 
in  a  tropical  and  heavenly  calm  of  indigo  and  silver 
and  green,  the  Kanaka  girls  swam  out  to  the  ship 
with  hybiscus  flowers  in  their  hair.  How  tragic- 
ally lost  that  moment  was,  not  only  for  the  girl 
isolated  in  the  hard  glare  of  an  artificial  incandes- 
cence, but  for  me  as  well!  That  phase  of  romance, 
of  reward,  was  over;  and  the  ruinous  compromise 
about  us,  emphasized  by  the  piano,  only  remained. 

Then,  out  of  the  incongruous  and  mingled 
stridor,  the  men's  voices  carried  the  burden  of  a 
song;  and  somehow,  it  evaded  the  restrictions  of  the 
West,  the  measure  necessary  for  the  mechanical 
couples — its  sustained  minor  key,  like  the  murmur 
of  a  surf  on  the  outer  coral  reef,  was  native  and 
harmonious  and  unregenerate.  It  escaped,  returned 
to  the  huts  thatched  with  nipa  palm,  to  the  sim- 
plicity of  brief  clearings  between  the  high-lifted 
fronds  of  the  cocoanut  palms  and  the  sea.  It  went 
back  to  an  idyllic  time  before  commercial  Chris- 

[136] 


tianity — or  Christian  commerce? — had  extended  its 
lanes  of  trade  and  finally  introduced,  into  far  ver- 
dant islands,  the  doubtful  advantages  of  the  mus- 
kets, the  diseases  and  distilled  grains  of  civilization. 

But  of  all  this,  certainly,  the  Kanaka  girl  was 
ignorant,  for  her  emotions  would  be  formless,  un- 
reasoned. Perhaps  she  was  already  wholly  de- 
stroyed by  the  forces,  the  admirable  progressive 
forces,  to  which  all  primitive  people  were  specially 
susceptible.  Yet  against  that  possibility,  against 
any  conceivable  and  debauched  preferences,  she  was 
invested  with  the  charming  melancholy  of  what  had 
been  beautiful  and  had  gone.  Her  intense  black 
hair,  as  solid  as  poured  ink,  swinging  across  her 
high  cheek  bones,  her  dwelling  eyes,  a  mouth  wide 
and  vivid  and  innocently  cruel,  were  immeasurably 
richer  than  the  so  much  later  pallor  of  the  meagre 
faces — the  dancing  at  a  pause — gathered  about  the 
tables. 

But  success,  victory,  belonged  to  the  latter: 
the  figures  on  the  platform,  in  white  with  soft  red 
sashes,  were  the  servants  of  pleasure  to  the  indus- 
trious and  the  drained.  The  army  of  mediocrity, 
sweeping  from  land  to  land,  and  crossing  all  the 
seas,  was  overwhelming  with  its  envious  hypocrisy 
whatever  was  natural  and  superior,  happy  and  true. 
The  conversion  of  the  heathen,  begun  in  Cuba  with 
Spanish  steel,  through  friendly  islands  in  a  barter- 

[137] 


ing  creed,  was  being  bravely  carried  forward  to  its 
irrevocable  end. 

A  waiter,  stopping  beside  me,  informed  me  that 
the  girl — the  little  Kanaka — would  dance  at  half 
past  ten  and  again  at  a  quarter  to  twelve.  And, 
paying  for  my  coffee  as  hastily  as  possible,  I  left;  I 
fled,  really,  from  the  accusing  possibility  of  seeing 
her — in  wreaths  of  dusty  paper  flowers  where  there 
had  once  been  hybiscus — dance  in  a  vulgar  travesty 
of  the  natural  perfection  she  had  once  possessed.  I 
could  not  face  her  standing  in  alien  and  tinsel  slip- 
pers on  the  cold  floor  of  a  cellar;  an  object  of  no 
more  than  indecent  curiosity.  For,  unavoidably,  I 
too  had  fetched  her  away  from  the  perpetual  cool 
harsh  rustle  of  the  palms,  into  a  place,  an  existence, 
an  hour,  without  safety  or  any  escape. 


[138] 


Lord  Dunsany 

A  Request 


A  ^Request 


HEN  I  am  out  of  fashion 

Like  hats  that  once  they  wore, 
Or  some  long-opened  ration, 
And  no  one  reads  me  more, 
Then  give  me  some  compassion 
Who  loved  my  books  before. 

When  new  young  men  write  verses 

That  I  don't  understand, 
And  thick  gray  mist  immerses 

My  mind-seen  glittering  land 
And  only  weary  hearses 

Travel  its  golden  sand, 

Say  to  that  jeunesse  doree, 

Though  it  be  trite  to  say, 
That  I  too  found  a  glory 

Far  eastward  of  Cathay 
And  wrote  a  golden  story 

That's  had  its  golden  day. 

[141] 


A.  Neil  Lyons 

The  Drum 


I 


The  Drum 


Y  NED  has  gone,  he's  gone  away, 
he's  gone  away  for  good; 
He's  called,  he's  killed. 
Him  and  his  drum  lies  in  the  rain, 
lies  in  the  rain  where  they  was  stood, 
Where  they  was  stilled. 
He  was  my  soldier  boy,  my  Ned, 
Between  these  breasts  he'd  lay  his  head. 

But  now  he's  killed. 
My  soldier's  gone.    His  head  lies  now  between  two 
naked  stones, 

His  drum  is  broke. 
There's  none  to  mourn  him  in  the  rain,  only  the 
rooks  which  watch  his  bones; 
Which  watch  and  croak. 
His  great  red  hand  is  wasted  bare, 
That  tapped  his  drum,  that  touched  my  hair. 
Hark!    Not  a  stroke. 


[145] 


But  what  is  this  beside  my  heart,  beside  my  heart 
that  sounds? 

Tap  tap,  tap  tap! 
Oh,  what  is  this  that  beats  within,  like  drummers 
beating  bounds 

Rap  upon  rap? 
What  wonder  have  I  felt  and  heard? 
Is  it  the  wing-beats  of  a  bird? 

Tap  tap,  tap  tap! 
My  boy  is  gone,  yet  near  my  heart  another  boy  lies 
now. 

Though  he  be  dumb, 
He  thumps  my  heart  like  soldiers  thump,  he  thumps 
a  tow-row-row, 

To  say  he's  come. 
A  drummer  boy,  all  gaily  dres't, 
Will  yet  again  be  at  my  breast. 

Hark!  There's  his  drum! 


[146] 


Maurice  Hewlett 

The  London  That  Is  Far  Off 


The  London  That  Is  Far  Off 


IKE  many  another  man  of  his  age,  Mr.  Arthur 
Machen*  looks  wistfully  back  along  the  ring- 
ing grooves  of  change,  and  thinks  that  he  is 
worse  off  now  than  he  used  to  be.  The  beer 
tasted  better,  the  eggs  were  fresher,  the  grass 
greener,  London  was  smaller,  or  he 
felt  himself  bigger  than  to-day  he 
does.  I  am  in  sympathy  with  him, 
though  I  do  not  feel  like  that  about  it  myself,  and 
am  not  convinced  that  he  really  does  either. 

We  must  be  near  contemporaries,  for  I  remem- 
ber all  the  things  that  he  remembers,  and  some 
that  he  does  not — which,  if  he  did,  he  would  surely 
have  recalled.  He  writes,  for  instance,  of  the 
greater  state  kept  by  the  grandees  of  1870-80.  I 
remember  hatchments  on  great  Mayfair  houses,  and 
the  vision  of  a  wonderful  old  lady  in  a  coach  and 
four.  Was  she  not  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland?  She 
had  postilions  in  white  beavers  and  satin  jackets, 
and  two  footmen  dancing  up  and  down  behind  her, 


*A  review  of  "Far  Off  Things,"  by  Arthur  Machen. 

[149] 


perched  on  a  narrow  footboard  and  holding  them- 
selves on  by  straps. 

My  grandfather  (one  of  them)  had  a  family 
coach  with  an  outside  back  seat  called  a  rum- 
ble, in  which  my  brother  and  I  much  preferred  to 
ride.  It  was  as  big  as  a  ship's  boat  and  lifted  us  high 
above  the  traffic.  Mr.  Machen  thinks  all  that  was 
splendid,  and  that  the  modern  motorcar  is  not  so 
splendid.     I  agree. 

Where  I  differ  from  him  is  in  his  regret  for  the 
fading  of  the  vision.  I  fear  that  I  share  what  he  calls 
"that  vile  'Liberal'  objection  to  splendour  as  splen- 
dour." The  man,  he  says,  "who  found  'Blazes'  ridic- 
ulous would  probably  find  the  King  in  his  coronation 
robes  equally  ridiculous."  Quite  so.  We  are  all  so 
ridiculous  essentially  that  none  of  us  can  afford  to 
dress  up. 

Mr.  Machen  candidly  says  that  he  regrets  the 
loss  of  "smartness"  in  his  betters.  I  think  we  are  all 
better  without  it.  Then,  as  now,  one  kind  of  smart- 
ness had  often  to  be  maintained  by  another. 
Montagu  Tigg,  as  he  remembers,  so  maintained 
Tigg  Montagu.  And  were  there  not  a  Baron  Grant 
in  our  young  days,  and  a  very  splendid  Marquess  of 
Hastings? 

No,  no.  Handsome  always  was,  it  is,  and  it  will 
forever  be,  as  Handsome  does,  whatever  the  horse- 
power by  which  we  elect  to  be  driven;  and  that  is  a 
comfortable  word  for  Mr.  Machen — or  it  should  be. 

[150] 


I  doubt  whether  human  nature  has  changed  in 
anything  essential  since  Mr.  Machen  and  I  were  lads 
in  London.  I  doubt  whether  it  has  changed  since 
King  Lud  was  a  lad  there. 

What  has  happened  is  that  there  is  much  more 
of  it,  and  too  much  to  be  comfortable.  You  can't,  so 
to  speak,  see  human  nature  for  the  human  beings. 

Why,  I  remember  Piccadilly  when  it  looked  like 
a  street  in  Chichester  on  an  off  day.  My  grandfather 
(the  other  one)  used  to  ride  up  it  every  morning  to 
his  office  in  Gray's  Inn.  He  rode  a  white  pony,  and 
used  to  look  out  for  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  so  that 
he  might  touch  his  hat  to  him,  and  receive  (as  he 
always  did)  a  touch  in  return.  That,  to  be  sure,  was 
much  before  my  time,  but  I  remember  him  on  his 
pony  quite  well. 

And  I  remember  Piccadilly,  too,  when  there  were 
market  carts  in  it  at  noon,  wagons  with  four  horses, 
and  an  occasional  old  fly-blown  bus  with  a  few  hardy 
climbers  on  its  roof.  A  beau  on  horseback  would  be 
drawn  up  to  the  kerb  for  a  gossip  with  friends  on  foot. 
Presently  a  basket  carriage  drawn  by  a  pair  of  ponies 
would  come  along,  a  shawled  lady  driving,  a  cockaded 
urchin  at  the  back,  with  his  arms  tied  in  a  knot. 

Leisurely,  pleasant,  sun-flecked  life  in  that  old 
Piccadilly !    But  human  nature  was  just  the  same. 

Another  wail  of  Mr.  Machen's  is  for  Holywell 
street,  and  its  less  than  questionable,  its  unquestion- 
able, connotations.     Squalor  may  be  picturesque  in 

[151] 


retrospect;  "the  old  hugger-mugger  of  the  London 
back  streets,  dark  taverns  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
where  men  had  lain  hidden  from  the  hangman" — yes, 
I  know.  There  were  Elzevirs  to  be  had  in  Booksell- 
ers-row and  Clare  Market;  and  there  were  bugs,  too, 
and  smells  galore.  Unsavoury  works  could  be  had 
there — Mysteries  of  Paris,  Mysteries  of  St.  James's, 
Fanny  Hill,  Mrs.  Clark,  Harriet  Wilson,  and  their 
likes.    Does  he  regret  them?    I  don't  suppose  he  does. 

"To  be  in  the  Strand,"  he  says,  sighing,  "was  like 
drinking  punch  and  reading  Dickens."  So  it  was — 
but  one  can  read  Dickens  the  better  without  the 
punch,  either  within  or  without  the  pages.  It  was 
a  strange  chapter  of  literary  history  where  human 
happiness  could  not  be  imagined  or  pictured  without 
too  much  to  eat  and  too  much  to  drink.  I  will  be 
sentimental  with  almost  anyone,  for  the  mingling 
of  tears  is  as  wholesome  a  vent  as  the  chiming  of 
laughter — but  I  cannot  cry  over  the  bad  smells  of 
yesteryear  to  save  my  life.  When  I  remember  Holy- 
well street  I  turn  with  thanksgiving  to  Charing 
Cross-road.  It  is  nothing  to  write  home  about — 
but  you  can  feel  the  wind  in  it.     So  much  for  that. 

When  he  regrets  the  passing  of  sound  literature 
I  am  much  more  of  Mr.  Machen's  mind.  He  seems 
to  have  found  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  his  father's  book- 
shelves at  about  the  same  time  as  I  also  found  him,  in 
the  same  sort  of  place.  But  where  will  you  find  Sir 
Walter  Scott  now,  or  who  is  there  to  look  for  him? 

[152] 


He  calls  the  Waverley  Novels  "vital  literature." 
"Vital  literature,"  he  goes  on  to  say,  "is  something  as 
remote  as  you  can  possibly  imagine  from  the  short 
stories  of  the  late  Guy  de  Maupassant" — or  from  the 
long  ones  of  the  late  Emile  Zola,  he  might  have 
added.  I  am  obliged  to  him  for  that  stave  of  his 
elegy. 

I  don't  know,  myself,  how  novels,  which  are 
worth  calling  novels,  are  going  to  be  produced  in  the 
future  of  a  race  which  has  not  been  nourished  on  the 
likes  of  Walter  Scott.  Nor  do  I  think  it  a  hopeful 
outlook  for  English  prose  itself  that  the  future  ex- 
ponents of  it  must  be  men  who  have  never  had  read 
to  them,  and  do  not  themselves  read,  the  Authorised 
Version  of  the  Bible.  Ways  and  means  may  exist, 
or  may  be  found,  but  I  don't  know  where. 

The  novel,  as  it  has  been  so  far  understood, 
demands  body  (solidity)  and  soul  (universality); 
good  prose  demands  sonority,  dignity,  and  above  all 
things  simplicity.  Where  now  are  we  going  to  find 
such  quality?    None  of  us  knows. 

But  we  must  have  courage  and  keep  good  hearts. 
After  all,  we  forgot  the  Mass,  took  up  with  Luther, 
and  did  not  do  so  badly.  If,  now,  Luther  is  to  give 
way  to  a  new  prophet,  he  has  served  his  turn.  Wir 
heissen  euch  hoffen,  let  us  say  to  Mr.  Machen.  His 
Gwentland  (and  a  noble  country  that  is)  remains,  and 
his  Gwentlanders  are  the  same  people.  So,  if  he  could 
but  see  it,  are  his  Londoners,  splendid  or  not. 

[153] 


Anonymous 

Aucassin  and  Nicolete 


Aucassin  and  Nicolete 


F  THE  LOVE  OF  Aucassin 
Sung  by  minstrel  long  ago, 
It  were  well  for  all  to  know — 
Ne'er  would  I  the  tale  forget ! 
Heaven  were  hell  were  she  not 
there, 

Hell  with  her  were  passing  fair; 
Ah!  such  love  beseemeth  man — 
Love  like  his  for  Nicolete! 

She  a  tender,  Paynim  maid, 

From  the  Saracens  was  bought, 

By  a  knight  to  Provence  brought, 
Where  in  time  her  love  she  met; 

He  the  son  of  Count  Biaucaire, 

To  the  seigneury  was  heir; 
But  alas!  he  disobeyed 
When  he  looked  on  Nicolete. 

How  the  haughty  Seigneur  swore 
When  he  learned  the  fatal  truth 
Of  the  love  of  maid  and  youth — 

[157] 


Better  they  had  never  met! 

Divers  threats  he  caused  to  spread, 
Grievous  tears  the  maiden  shed, 

She  was  stricken  to  the  core — 

Poor,  heartbroken,  Nicolete! 

To  the  forest  depths  she  stole; 
Aucassin  there  followed  fast, 
At  her  feet  his  love  he  cast — 

Vowed  he'd  nothing  to  regret. 
Not  for  him  the  castles  great, 
Not  for  him  the  vast  estate; 

It  was  naught,  upon  his  soul! 

When  compared  with  Nicolete. 

Far  away  the  lovers  rode, 

Slacked  they  not  the  bridle  rein, 
Till  from  Count  Biaucaire's  domain, 

Many  miles  were  in  their  debt; 
They  have  crossed  to  other  lands, 
They  have  trod  on  foreign  sands, 

And  in  knightly  halls  abode — 

Aucassin  and  Nicolete. 

Came  the  Saracens  by  stealth, 
Swept  the  castles  of  their  stores, 
Captives  carried  to  the  shores — 

Ah,  the  ground  with  tears  is  wet! 
To  the  West  went  Aucassin, 
Prisoner  of  the  Mussulman; 

[158] 


To  the  East  with  all  their  wealth 
Took  they  weeping  Nicolete! 

Back  to  Provence  Aucassin 
Turned  to  find  his  father  dead; 
He  a  Seigneur  in  his  stead 

Ruled  the  country  well;  and  yet 
For  the  absent  one  he  sighed, 
Love  to  other  maids  denied, 

Placed  his  heart  beneath  a  ban — 

He  was  true  to  Nicolete! 

Strolled  a  minstrel,  brown  and  young, 
Story  sung  of  lovers  true — 
One  that  Aucassin  well  knew — 

Ceased  at  once  his  heart  to  fret; 
He  that  singer  took  aside 
Plead  for  tidings  of  his  bride — 

She  whose  name  lived  on  his  tongue 

Fair-browed,  lady  Nicolete! 

Sped  the  troubadour  away, 
Came  there  presently  instead 
She  whom  he  had  mourned  as  dead- 
She  on  whom  his  heart  was  set; 
Never  man  so  glad  as  he, 
Never  maid  so  joyed  as  she; 
They  were  wedded  ere  the  day — 
Aucassin  and  Nicolete. 

[159] 


Gustav  Meyrink 

The  cDeviV$  grindstone 


TTie  Devil's  Grindstone 


HERE  is  an  ancient  house  in  the  old  and 
lonely  part  of  town.  From  the  first  floor 
to  the  attic  it  is  inhabited  by  discontented  and 
unhappy  people.  Whosoever  enters  it  is  at 
once  seized  by  a  feeling  of  disquietude,  of  dis- 
may, and  mental  torment.  It  is  a  dark  and 
sinister  structure,  buried  almost  up  to  its 
belly  in  the  earth  of  the  unpaved  hill. 

In  the  centre  of  the  cellar  there  lies  an  iron 
plate.  Whosoever  ventures  to  lift  it  may  look  into 
a  black  and  narrow  shaft  with  slippery  sides.  Cold 
and  sheer  it  runs  down  into  the  heart  of  the  earth. 
Often  had  torches  attached  to  ropes  been  let 
down  into  this  hole.  They  sank  deeply  into  the 
darkness  and  their  light  became  ever  weaker  and 
more  smoldering.  Then  the  torches  would  go  out 
and  the  people  would  say:  "There  ain't  any 
more   air!" 

And  so  nobody  has  ever  found  out  whither  this 
shaft  goes. 

Should  you,  however,  be  possessed  of  clear  eyes, 
you  will  be  able  to  see  without  light.    You  will  be 

[163] 


able  to  see  even  in  the  darkness,  when  everybody 
else  is  sleeping. 

When  the  people  of  this  city  succumb  to  the 
night  and  consciousness  vanishes,  then  the  spectres 
of  Sin  and  Greed  leave  their  perches  upon  the  pen- 
dulum of  human  hearts.  These  spectres  are  of  a 
shimmering  green;  their  outlines  are  dim  and  uncer- 
tain, and  they  are  utterly  hideous,  for  there  is  no 
love  in  the  hearts  of  these  human  beings. 

The  people  of  the  town  are  weary  from  their 
day's  work,  which  they  call  duty,  and  so  they  seek 
to  replenish  their  forces  through  sleep,  in  order  to 
be  able  to  destroy  the  happiness  and  prosperity  of 
their  fellow  brethren — in  order  to  plan  new  murders 
in  the  newest,  freshest  sunshine. 

They  sleep  and  they  snore. 

Then  the  shadows  of  the  Sins  and  Lusts  slip 
through  the  cracks  in  the  doors  and  the  crevices  in 
the  walls  into  the  open  air — slink  into  the  vast  and 
hearkening  night.  The  sleeping  animals  scent  them 
and  start  and  whimper. 

The  shadows  creep  and  dart  into  the  old  and 
gloomy  house,  into  the  mouldy  cellar  where  lies  the 
iron  plate.  And  the  iron  is  without  weight  when  it 
is  touched  by  the  hands  of  these  spirits.  In  its  deep- 
est profundities  the  shaft  broadens  out — it  is  there 
that  the  phantoms  meet.  They  do  not  greet  one 
another  and  they  ask  no  questions — there  is  nothing 
which  one  would  care  to  know  about  the  other. 

[164] 


In  the  middle  of  this  chamber  hums  a  grey  stone 
disk,  revolving  at  an  enormous  speed.  This  stone, 
harder  than  adamant  or  obsidian,  was  tempered  by 
the  Evil  One  thousands  of  years  ago,  tempered  and 
annealed  in  the  fires  of  hate — long  before  a  single 
stone  of  this  city  stood. 

Upon  its  whirring  and  whizzing  edges  the 
phantoms  sharpen  their  prehensile  claws,  those 
claws  which  their  serfs,  the  day-labourers  in  the 
Devil's  Vineyard,  had  used  and  scratched  blunt. 

The  sparks  spurt  from  the  onyx  claws  of  Lust, 
from  the  steel  talons  of  Greed. 

All,  all  of  them  are  once  more  sharpened  into 
points  like  needles  and  to  edges  like  razors, — for  the 
Evil  One  has  need  of  ever-new  wounds. 

If  the  sleeping  mortal  stretches  his  fingers,  then 
this  is  a  signal  for  the  phantom  to  rush  back  into 
the  body.  The  claws  must  remain  crooked  so  that 
the  hands  cannot  be  joined  in  prayer. 

Satan's  grindstone  continues  to  whirr — cease- 
lessly— never  diminishing  its  speed — 

Day  and  night — 

Until  Time  shall  stand  still  and  space  be  broken 
up. 


*     * 


If  you  will  but  hold  your  hands  to  your  ears, 
you  will  hear  the  whirring  of  the  grindstone  within 
you. 

[165] 


Lionel  Johnson 


To  %  L.  S. 


I 


To  R.  L.  S. 

[Requiescat  in  pace  anima  dilectissimi  scriptoris] 


^p  ECAUSE,  with  many  a  goodly  word, 

My  flagging  pulses  you  have  stirred, 
And,  when  to  me  high  noon  seemed 

night, 
Have  flooded  me  with  gallant  light: 

I,  who,  to  this,  your  island  home, 

A  stranger,  yet  a  friend  have  come, 

Give,  for  your  memorable  sake, 

This  poor,  best  wish,  that  I  could  make. 


[169] 


Wm.  Cullen  Bryant 

Stanzas 


Stanzas 


OT  that  from  life,  and  all  its  woes, 
The  hand  of  life  shall  set  me  free; 

Not  that  this  head  shall  then  repose 
In  the  low  vale,  most  peacefully. 


Ah!  when  I  touch  time's  furthest  brink, 

A  kinder  solace  must  attend; 
It  chills  my  very  soul  to  think 

On  that  dread  hour  when  life  must  end. 

In  vain  the  flattering  verse  may  breathe 
Of  ease  from  pain,  and  rest  from  strife ; 

There  is  a  sacred  dread  of  death 

Inwoven  with  the  strings  of  life. 

This  bitter  cup  at  first  was  given 

When  angry  Justice  frowned  severe ; 

And  'tis  the  eternal  doom  of  Heaven 

That  men  must  view  the  grave  with  fear. 


[173] 


Paul  Eldridge 

Emperor  of  ZMicamaca 


Emperor  of  Micamaca 


FOR  SEVERAL  months  now  Don  Quijote  had 
been  Emperor  of  Micamaca,  and  his  faithful  shield- 
bearer,  Sancho  Panza,  Governor-Generola.  Greater 
than  all  modern  countries  was  Micamaca,  and  more 
beautiful.  An  endless  garden.  A  Paradise  without 
a  "tree  of  knowledge,"  without  a  treacherous  snake, 
a  silly  woman,  and  an  over-bearing  lord.  A  travel- 
ler could  not  tell  what  struck  him  most — the  deep 
scarlet  of  the  roses,  or  the  lily-whiteness  of  the 
womens'  faces,  or  the  noble  bearing  of  the  men.  An 
eternal  Summer  was  Micamaca,  where  the  rain  fell 
only  to  deepen  the  lustre  of  things,  and  the  wind 
blew  only  to  scatter  perfumes  of  great  delight. 

Profound  were  the  love  and  the  admiration  of 
the  people  of  Micamaca  for  their  Emperor  and  their 
Governor-General.  The  women  like  exquisite  fruit 
hanging  ripe  upon  trees  implored  to  be  culled  and 
bitten  into.  The  men  begged  to  be  dressed  as 
soldiers  to  wage  war  against  any  nation. 

But  Don  Quijote,  Emperor,  looked  in  the  great 
silver-mirror,  and  though  he  saw  himself  dazzling 

[177] 


with  gold  and  precious  stones,  turned  his  face  in  a 
vast  despair.  He  uttered  sighs,  deep  and  rumbling 
and  circular  like  sorrowful  winds. 

"How  long,  my  dear  friends,  shall  we  remain 
chained  to  this  evil  dream,  this  monstrous  incanta- 
tion?" 

Sancho  Panza,  Governor-General,  unlocked  his 
arms  from  the  waist  of  a  beautiful  Micamacienne, 
and  approached  his  master.  His  feet  clanked  with 
the  silver  spurs,  and  his  scimitar,  studded  with 
jewels  of  all  colors,  beat  lightly  against  his  side, 
while  his  body,  protruding  far  beyond  him,  shone 
with  decorations  and  wide  golden  bands. 

"What  evil  dreams,  Your  Majesty?" 

"This  enchanted  hut;  this  pig-sty." 

Sancho  Panza  screwed  his  small  eyes,  until  they 
vanished  completely  in  their  velvet  bed  of  fat. 

"This  pig-sty?"  he  muttered  at  last,  dazed. 

"Look  at  yourself,  Sancho.  How  they  have 
fattened  you!  You  roll  upon  your  short  legs  like  a 
heavy  barrel." 

Sancho  Panza,  Governor-General,  was  insulted. 

"The  beautiful  women  of  Micamaca  call  my 
bearing  elegant,  Your  Majesty." 

Don  Quijote,  Emperor,  continued  without  hear- 
ing the  answer, — "And  look  at  me.  Where  is  the 
long  face  of  the  'Knight  of  the  Sorrowful  Visage?' 
A  moon — reddish  and  full — gazing  dully." 

[178] 


"The  women  of  Micamaca  call  their  Emperor 
the  handsomest  of  men." 

"Remember  this,  my  son, — to  raisers  of  hogs, 
there  is  nothing  more  beautiful  than  a  fat,  dull  hog." 

There  are  neither  hogs  nor  raisers  of  hogs  in 
Micamaca,  Your  Majesty.  The  only  animals  these 
people  eat  are  lambs  as  white  as  snow,  and  pigeons 
with  feet  of  cardinals." 

"This  only  proves  that  you  have  been  more 
profoundly  enchanted  and  more  successfully  fat- 
tened than  myself.  I  am  but  half-dazed.  I  tell  you, 
my  son,  if  we  do  not  hurry  out  of  this  place,  we  shall 
soon  walk  on  all  fours,  and  grunt  and  seek  muddy 
troughs, — like  this  woman  approaching  us  now." 

"This  woman?  Dulcinea — Your  Majesty — Dul- 
cinea,  Empress  of  Micamaca,  whose  voice  is  more 
beautiful  than  the  song  of  nightingales,  whose  face 
is  more  radiant  than  the  stars."  Saying  this,  the 
Governor-General  made  many  efforts  at  deep  bow- 
ing, which  he  could  not  accomplish  on  account  of  his 
great  body  protruding  far  beyond  him,  shining  with 
decorations  and  wide  golden  bands. 

"My  Lord,  your  slave  bids  you  good-day," 
spoke  or  rather  sang  Dulcinea,  Empress  of  Mica- 
maca, to  Don  Quijote,  Emperor  of  Micamaca.  And 
she  knelt  upon  her  dazzling  knees,  hidden  beneath 
gorgeous  silk.  "Take  her  away,  Sancho,  my  son, — 
beat  her  with  a  stick.    Let  her  not  grunt  at  my  feet ! 

[179] 


Drive  the  sow  off!  Her  paws  are  muddy.  She 
smells  like  a  litter  of  hogs." 

The  Empress  stunned,  remained  kneeling.  The 
Governor-General  opened  and  closed  his  mouth, — 
the  broken  black  teeth  of  the  upper  jaw  seeking  in 
vain  to  touch  the  broken  black  teeth  of  the  lower 
jaw.  The  Emperor  walked  slowly  to  the  window, 
sighing  deep,  circular  sighs  like  mournful  winds. 

"Arise,  Your  Majesty,"  at  last  the  Governor- 
General  managed  to  say,  trying  in  vain  to  bend  to 
lift  her. 

"It  does  not  matter,  dear  friend,"  the  Empress 
answered,  "if  my  Lord  thinks  me  a  sow.  I  shall  be 
his  devoted,  his  faithful  sow."  She  arose,  and 
walked  off,  two  tears  like  two  great  pearls,  like  two 
small  stars,  piercing  her  magnificent  eyes. 

Sancho-Panza,  Governor-General  of  Micamaca, 
watched  the  Emperor  press  his  nose  against  the 
window-pane. 

"My  master  is  mad!"  he  thought.  "But  that 
should  not  hinder  me  from  embracing  the  beautiful 
Micamaciennes  who  give  themselves  up  like  de- 
licious fruit,  nor  from  eating  the  lambs  as  white  as 
milk,  and  the  pigeons  with  feet  of  cardinals." 

"Sancho,  my  friend,  come  here,  and  watch  this 
great  ugly  wind-mill  turn." 

The  Governor-General  walked  slowly,  heavily 
to  the  window,  his  feet  clanking  with  the  silver 
spurs,  his  studded  scimitar  beating  lightly  against 

[180] 


his  side.  He  presed  his  heavy  nose  against  the 
window-pane,  and  looked  out. 

"I  see  no  wind-mill,  Your  Majesty." 

"Yonder — there — beyond  the  trees." 

"That  is  not  a  wind-mill,  Your  Majesty.  It  is 
your  body-guard,  composed  of  the  handsomest 
officers,  drilling." 

"Sancho,  my  friend,  you  are  lost.  They  have 
enchanted  you  completely,  alas!" 

The  Governor-General  had  the  impulse  to  kneel 
before  His  Majesty,  and  beg  him  to  come  to  his 
senses,  but  his  body  protruding  far  beyond  him  for- 
bade him  from  doing  it.  Instead  he  took  his 
master's  hand,  and  kissed  it. 

"Your  Majesty,  I  beg  of  you, — be  reasonable! 
See  things  as  they  are.  When  we  used  to  encounter 
wind-mills  in  our  humble  days,  you  used  to  think 
them  great  armies,  and  now  the  flower  of  the  finest 
army  in  the  world,  you  consider  a  wind-mill!" 

"O,  Sancho,  Sancho,  faithful  shield-bearer  to 
the  once  great  Don  Quijote,  most  valiant  knight  of 
Spain — you  shall  soon  walk  on  all  fours  and  grunt." 

"How  should  I  walk  on  all  fours,  when  I  cannot 
even  bend?  A  moment  ago,  I  wanted  to  kneel  be- 
fore you,  but  could  not." 

"Sancho,  my  friend,  I  am  still  enough  of  the 
'Knight  of  the  Sorrowful  Visage'  to  speak  figura- 
tively. When  I  spoke  of  you  as  walking  on  all  fours 
and  grunting,  I  meant  spiritually.     To  all  the 

[181] 


knights  of  old,  the  spirit  only  counted.  What  is  it 
to  me  if  they  call  me  Emperor,  if  my  spirit  is  turning 
into  a  hog?" 

"I  cannot  understand  you,  Your  Majesty.  You 
are  Emperor.  Dulcinea  is  Empress.  The  most 
beautiful  women  are  your  hand-maids.  The  greatest 
army  recognizes  you  as  their  supreme  ruler.  What 
more  can  you  desire?" 

"It's  true,  Sancho,  you  never  belonged  to  the 
race  of  knights.  Your  nose  always  sought  the  mud, 
like  the  snouts  of  pigs.  Your  belly  was  always  more 
important  to  you  than  your  soul." 

"If  I  never  belonged  to  the  race  of  Knights, — 
I  am  now  mightier  than  all  of  them.  What  were 
they  but  half-naked  wanderers,  mocked  at  by 
people?  I  am  Governor-General  of  Micamaca,  the 
greatest  country  in  the  world.  And  my  subjects  love 
me  and  respect  me.  I  am  dressed  in  gold  and  jewels, 
and  dwell  in  a  palace." 

The  Emperor  smiled  sadly. 

"How  can  you  be  satisfied  with  rags?  I  irk 
underneath  mine.  They  stifle  me.  Take  this  bar- 
ber's basin  off  my  head,  and  lather  your  beard  in  it." 

The  Emperor  bent  his  head,  until  his  chin 
touched  his  chest. 

"Never,  Your  Majesty!  It's  the  greatest  crown 
in  the  world!" 

The  Emperor  raised  his  head,  and  sighed  deeply 
like  the  breath  of  a  bottomless  well. 

[182] 


"The  greatest  crown  in  the  world  is  Imagina- 
tion, Sancho.  There  is  no  imagination  beneath  this 
heavy  thing." 

"I  prefer  Reality,  Your  Majesty." 

"Alas!  You  have  always  preferred  Reality. 
But  I  do  not  blame  you.  The  Age  of  Knighthood  is 
past,  and  even  I,  Don  Quijote  De  La  Mancha,  the 
greatest  Knight  of  Spain  and  of  Europe,  am  but  the 
slave  of  a  suit  trimmed  with  gold  and  studded  with 
jewels.  O  Dulcinea,  Dulcinea  Del  Toboso,  I  have 
been  unfaithful  to  thy  name!  Despise  me,  disown 
me!" 

"Dulcinea  loves  you,  dear  Master.  She  awaits 
your  command  to  kneel  at  your  feet." 

"Dulcinea?" 

"Dulcinea,  Empress  of  Micamaca." 

"I  speak  of  Dulcinea  Del  Toboso." 

"Dulcinea  Del  Toboso  tends  to  pigs  and  sheep, 
and  smells  like  them." 

The  Emperor  raised  his  arm. 

"Beware,  low-bred  fool,  or  I'll  strike  you  dead! 
Never  dare  to  speak  to  me  in  such  terms  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  ladies,  the  purest,  the  wisest!" 

The  Governor-General  retreated  as  quickly  as 
he  could.  He  understood  and  appreciated  Reality, 
and  the  reality  of  a  blow  he  knew  to  be  painful. 

"Some  day,  when  I  dare  throw  these  rags  off 
me,  and  this  barber's  basin,  I  shall  roam  the  world 
once  more  in  search  of  great  adventures.     O,  Dul- 

[183] 


cinea  Del  Toboso,  most  perfect  of  women,  I  shall 
yet  be  worthy  of  thee  again!  I  shall  come  to  thee 
and  kneel  in  the  dust  before  thy  beautiful  feet,  and 
thou  wilt  forgive  me,  for  thou  art  as  merciful  as 
thou  art  pure!" 

"She  will  mock  you  as  she  did  once  before." 

"I  shall  deserve  it." 

"As  for  your  great  adventures,  Your  Majesty, — 
have  you  already  forgotten  the  enchanted  inn, 
where  you  were  beaten  and  trod  upon;  where  your 
arm  was  almost  torn  out  of  its  socket;  have  you  for- 
gotten how  you  lost  your  teeth?  Have  you  for- 
gotten— " 

"Enough  fool!  Everything  was  more  beautiful 
than  this, — because  I  had  vision  and  imagination 
then." 

"Imagination  that  leaves  you  without  teeth  and 
with  broken  ribs  is  not  to  my  liking.  I  still  have  a 
part  of  me  so  scarred  that  I  am  ashamed  to  show  it 
to  the  beautiful  Micamaciennes." 

"I  told  you,  Sancho,  that  I  am  not  angry  at  you 
for  being  part  of  the  trough.  Go  embrace  your 
sows!" 

Sancho  Panza,  Governor-General  of  Micamaca, 
knew  it  was  useless  to  continue  arguing  with  his 
master.  He  realized  that  the  latter  was  falling  back 
into  his  strange  delusion, — stranger  this  time  than 
before.  Meanwhile,  the  Micamacienne,  whom  he 
had  left  in  the  corner  of  the  hall,  was  beckoning  to 

[184] 


him.  He  thought:  "While  Reality  is  pleasant,  one 
should  not  neglect  to  embrace  it."  And  he  walked 
over,  his  feet  clanking  with  the  silver  spurs;  his 
scimitar,  studded  with  jewels  of  all  colors,  dangling 
lightly  against  his  side. 

Don  Quijote,  Emperor  of  Micamaca,  greatest 
and  most  beautiful  country  in  the  world,  seated  him- 
self deeply  into  his  throne  of  pure  gold,  studded  with 
emeralds  and  sapphires,  and  thought — long  sad 
thoughts.  He  thought  of  chivalry  and  its  death, 
since  he,  Supreme  Knight  of  the  World,  was  really 
dead.  He  thought  of  Dulcinea  Del  Toboso,  rarest  of 
women;  he  thought  of  open  fields  where  one  sleeps 
on  the  cold  bare  ground  and  feeds  on  water  for  days, 
dreaming  the  while  of  great  conquests  .  .  .  He 
thought  and  thought  —  long,  sad  thoughts  —  until 
his  eyes  closed,  his  lids  pasted — and  he  snored    .    .    . 

When  he  awoke,  the  Moon,  rounder  in  Mica- 
maca than  anywhere  else  in  the  world,  looked  gently, 
reproachfully,  at  him  through  the  open  window. 
About  him  stood  the  Empress,  the  Governor-Gen- 
eral, the  Prime-Minister,  the  Cardinal,  the  Supreme 
Officers  of  the  Guard,  and  several  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful ladies  of  Micamaca.  They  waited  respectfully 
and  in  utmost  silence  for  their  Great  Emperor  to  re- 
turn from  the  land  of  dreams,  and  lead  them  to  the 
table  where  the  choicest  foods  were  scattering  deli- 
cate perfumes,  and  old  wines  sparkled  like  molten 
jewels,  in  golden  goblets    .     .     . 

[185] 


The  Emperor  rose,  and  looked  about  him. 

"Sancho!  Sancho!  Give  me  my  shield  and  my 
spear,  that  I  may  defend  myself  against  this  vulgar 
crowd !" 

"Your  Majesty, — this  is  not  a  vulgar  crowd! 
They  are  your  Empress,  your  Officers,  the  most 
beautiful  ladies  of  Micamaca!"  And  turning  to  the 
rest,  he  added, — "Do  not  take  it  amiss,  my  friends, 
my  Master  is  dreaming  about  one  of  the  glorious 
battles  he  fought  when  he  was  the  incomparable 
Knight  Errant  of  Europe." 

"Sancho,  you  have  become  a  tender  of  hogs. 
You  are  not  my  shield-bearer  any  longer !  You  shall 
never  be  governor  of  my  province!" 

"I  am  Governor-General  of  Micamaca,  the 
greatest  country  in  the  world!" 

The  Emperor  did  not  hear  him. 

He  raised  his  arms  high,  and  shouted :  "Avaunt ! 
Avaunt!  Hogs  and  hog-keepers!  I  do  not  need  a 
spear  for  you!  You  are  low-bred!  You  need  but 
the  club  and  the  fist!" 

The  people  receded,  pressing  against  one  an- 
other. 

"I  shall  unbind  the  spell  about  me !  I  shall  drive 
off  the  devils  that  hold  me  locked  in  this  pig-sty!  I 
shall  become  Don  Quijote  once  more,  greatest  and 
most  valiant  knight  of  Spain  and  of  Europe,  de- 
fender of  the  weak  and  oppressed,  champion  of 
woman!"     And  kneeling,  he  continued:     "O,  Dul- 

[186] 


cinea,  Dulcinea  Del  Toboso,  purest  and  most  beauti- 
ful of  women,  help  me !  Help  me  be  worthy  of  thee ! 
The  world  needs  my  strong  arm  and  my  undaunted 
heart!  All  the  great  knights  of  old  beckon  to  me, 
and  say:  'Don  Quijote  De  La  Mancha,  sole  knight 
in  a  vulgar  world,  be  true  to  yourself  and  to  us!'  O, 
Dulcinea,  assist  me,  rare  lady!" 

He  rose,  and  for  a  long  minute,  he  watched  the 
people,  who,  under  the  spell  of  his  looks  and  words, 
remained  motionless  and  silent,  except  Sancho 
Panza,  Governor-General.  He  said:  "Remember, 
my  Master,  the  blows  you  received.  Remember  the 
teeth  you  lost.  Remember  the  ribs  broken.  Re- 
member the  blows  the  people  you  tried  to  help  re- 
ceived." 

The  Emperor  did  not  hear  him. 

He  re-began:  "You  thought  that  by  braiding 
my  coat  with  gold,  and  studding  it  with  jewels,  I 
would  not  feel  the  burden  of  it.  You  thought  that  by 
feeding  me  on  the  white  lambs  and  red-footed 
pigeons  I  would  not  feel  the  great  hunger  gnawing 
within  me!  The  time  has  come!  I  swear  by  the 
great  Moon,  Knight-Errant  of  the  Skies,  Leader  of 
the  Lost  Companion  of  the  Lonesome,  that  I,  Don 
Quijote,  Knight  of  the  Sorrowful  Visage,  shall 
break  the  chains  that  bind  me,  and  roam  once  more 
the  world,  poor  of  purse,  but  rich  in  adventures  and 
visions !" 

[187] 


Sancho  Panza,  Governor-General,  interposed: 

"The  Moon  never  threw  us  a  piece  of  bread,  my 
Master,  nor  showed  us  the  way  to  a  good  inn,  where 
one  gets  lodging  for  nothing.  You  became  the 
Knight  of  the  Sorrowful  Visage  because  hunger 
and  blood-letting  thinned  you  out  so!  Remember, 
my  Master!" 

Don  Quijote,  Emperor  never  heard  him. 

"Here  —  take  that  barber's  basin,  and  lather 
your  face  in  it!  Take  this  jeweled  coat,  and  warm 
the  feet  of  pigs  with  it!    Take  these — " 

The  ladies  and  gentlemen  scared,  and  ashamed 
of  what  might  happen  to  their  Emperor,  turned  their 
faces,  and  left  the  hall.  Sancho  Panza,  Governor- 
General,  insulted,  stepping  heavily,  haughtily,  his 
silver  spurs  clinking,  his  scimitar  striking  his  mighty 
side. 

Meanwhile,  Don  Quijote,  Flower  of  Knight- 
hood, undressed  himself  entirely.  He  remained  as 
naked  as  he  had  been  long  ago  upon  the  mountain- 
peaks  awaiting  the  answer  of  Dulcinea  Del  Toboso. 
Untrammelled,  he  stood  watching  the  Moon  for  a 
long  time.  Then  slowly,  determined,  he  left  the 
Palace  of  Micamaca. 

Many  people  heard  through  the  night,  a  deep, 
heavy  voice,  calling  out:    "Free!    Free!    Free!" 

For  weeks,  the  court  of  Micamaca  searched  for 
their  Emperor.  Then  weary,  and  indignant,  they 
left  him  to  his  fate.    .    .    . 

[188] 


Sancho  Panza,  Governor-General,  beloved  of  his 
subjects,  was  proclaimed  Emperor  of  Micamaca.  A 
heavier  crown,  studded  with  many  more  jewels  was 
placed  upon  his  head;  and  a  uniform,  all  gold  and 
diamonds  covered  his  body,  which  protruded  farther 
and  farther  beyond  him.  Dulcinea,  neglected  and 
abused  wife  of  the  former  Emperor,  accepted  the 
generous  offer  of  becoming  consort  of  the  new 
Emperor. 

Many  were  the  descendants  of  the  good  Em- 
peror, and  all  resembled  their  ancestor.  They  ruled 
Micamaca,  whose  frontiers  in  time  extended  to  the 
limits  of  the  Earth,  as  gallantly  as  he    .    .    . 


[189] 


Walt  Whitman 


Fragment 
Broadway  of  61 


Fragments 


TOO  am  drawn 

Come,  since  it  must  be  so — away  from  all 

parlors  and  offices! 
Form  the   camp,   plant   the  flagstaff   in   the 

middle,  run  up  the  flag  on  the  halyards ! 
Uulimber  the  cannon  but  not  for  mere  salutes, 

for  courtesy 
We  will  want  something,  henceforth,  besides 

powder  and  wadding. 


[193] 


Broadway  1861 


The  flags  now  there, 

The  splendid  flags  flying  over  all  the  stores 
(The  wind  sets  from  the  west,  the  flags  are  out  stiff 

and  broad.    You  can  count  every  star  of  the 

thirty-four,  you  can  count  the  thirteen  stripes.) 
The  Regiments  arriving  and  departing 
The  Barracks,  the  soldiers  lounging  around 
The  recruiting  band,  preceded  by  the  fifer, 
The  ceaseless  din. 


[195] 


George  Moore 

1{gply  to  an  Invitation 


Reply  to  an  Invitation 


(A  letter  to  the  Lord  Chancellor  of  England  in  reply  to 
an  invitation  to  attend  the  dinner  given  to  Sir  Leslie  Ward — 
"Spy"— at  the  Savoy  Hotel,  November  21,  1921.) 


EAR  SIR:  I  am  much  obliged  to 
you  for  your  letter  pressing  me  to 
attend  the  dinner  which  is  to  be 
given  to  Sir  Leslie  Ward  at  the 
Savoy  Hotel  on  Monday  next,  No- 
vember 21,  at  7:45  p.  m.,  and  regret 
that  I  am  unable  to  attend  or  to  encourage  my 
friends  to  take  tickets. 

Yet  I  cannot  let  the  occasion  pass  without  con- 
gratulating you  on  what  you  have  done  for  the  Arts, 
for  you  have  gathered  such  a  magnificent  aristocratic 
host  —  two  Dukes,  many  Marquises,  innumerable 
Earls,  Viscounts,  Barons,  and  a  Multitude  of 
Knights  and  Baronets — that  it  is  probable  that 
many  besides  myself  will  begin  to  see  that  the  din- 
ners given  to  artists  would  gain  very  much  in  in- 

[199] 


terest  if  they  were  free  from  those  whose  occupa- 
tions and  ambitions  have  drawn  their  talents  into 
other  directions  than  Art. 

We  do  not  intrude  our  opinions  of  politics  upon 
politicians,  nor  our  views  regarding  the  interpreta- 
tion of  Acts  of  Parliament  upon  lawyers,  and  have 
always  been  at  a  loss  to  understand  why  the  Arts 
that  we  practise  should  be  expounded  to  us  by  aliens. 
Indeed,  the  heartfelt  appreciation  of  the  Arts  that 
we  have  listened  to  on  occasions  when  it  seemed  to 
us  churlish  to  refuse  to  come  in  have  left  us  a  little 
resentful.  The  wounds  we  received  are  not  yet 
quite  healed,  and  we  doubt  (I  am  speaking  now  not 
only  in  my  name,  but  in  the  names  of  the  friends 
whom  you  have  asked  me  to  bring)  if  the  speeches 
that  will  be  delivered  on  November  21  at  the  Savoy 
Hotel  will  differ  very  much  from  the  speeches 
which  we  still  bear  in  mind. 

We  dare  to  predict  that  the  painters  and  poets 
who  assemble  there  will  hear,  as  we  have  heard  in 
past  times,  that  Art  is  not  a  mere  adornment,  as  they 
imagined,  a  gratification  of  the  senses,  but  a  wonder- 
ful means  of  communication  between  nations,  more 
far-reaching  even  than  wireless  telegraphy,  for  it 
touches  the  heart.  Those  of  our  company  who  as- 
semble at  the  table  of  the  Philistine  will  hear,  of  a 
certainty,  that  nations  are  at  variance  and  at  war  for 
lack  of  knowledge  of  each  other,  and  they  will  be  told 

[200] 


that  the  drawings  of  Sir  Leslie  Ward  have  helped, 
and  will  continue  to  help  Frenchmen  to  understand 
England,  and  that  the  drawings  of  any  one  of  the 
great  Frenchmen,  no  matter  which,  will  enable 
Englishman  to  understand  France. 

On  November  21  at  the  Savoy  Hotel,  soon  after 
nine  o'clock,  the  words  will  ring  out:  Art  holds  the 
keys  of  Peace,  and  the  hours  will  go  by,  each  speaker 
differentiating  between  the  Arts,  one  contending  that 
whereas  the  Arts  of  Painting  and  Music  can  be 
understood  by  all  men,  the  Art  of  Literature  is  limited 
by  a  knowledge  of  language.  The  next  speaker 
will  not,  however,  fail  to  remark  that  language  has 
ceased  to  be  a  barrier,  averring  that  by  means  of 
translation  Literature  has  been  placed  on  the  same 
universal  level  as  Music  and  Painting. 

Eleven  o'clock  will  mark  the  introduction  of 
another  theme,  and  one  that  will  bring  down  the 
curtain  fitly  on  an  historic  occasion.  About  that 
time  a  speaker  will  arise  who  will  point  out  that 
Art  is  part  of  the  great  primal  substance  known  as 
Nature,  and  he  will  be  followed  by  another  who  will 
declare  that  Nature  is  something  more  and  some- 
thing less  than  Art;  that  Art  is  not  Nature  because 
it  is  Art,  that  Nature  is  not  Art  because  it  is 
Nature;  and  that  the  stupendous  creations  of  the 
artist  are  no  less  mysterious  than  those  of  God 
himself. 

[201] 


I  have  heard  all  this  kind  of  aristocratic  patter 
before,  and  really  cannot  bring  myself  to  listen  to  it 
again. 

Thanking  you  very  much  for  your  letter, — I 
remain,  truly  yours, 

GEORGE  MOORE. 

121  Ebury  Street,  London,  S.  W.  I. 
November  15, 1921. 


[202] 


(O 


Henry  McCullough 

"Precursors 


Precursors 


ILL  THE  FULL  MOON  we  plowed  the  whale's 
path; 

sang  Skald  the  Singer. 

Till  the  full  moon  the  sea-swans  breasted  the  wave-lash. 
Then  came  we  to  a  broad  river; 
Our  oars  bent  like  bow-shafts. 

"Oh  aye,  t'was  back-breaking  work.     The 

current   was   hard,"    grumbled    Othlin    the 

Weasel-eyed. 

Then  came  we  to  the  grey-walled  town; 
There  was  much  blood  running. 

"There  I  broke  my  strong  ax,"  bellowed  Sigurth 
the  Braggart,  "against  their  spiked  gates,  while  they 
poured  boiling  oil  upon  us  from  the  turrets.  Those 
Frenchmen  who  will  not  come  out  and  fight  like 
men !"  He  tipped  back  his  head  and  drank  long  from 
his  ox-horn  and  red  wine;  an  ox-horn  polished  and 
gold  trimmed  and  supported  by  two  golden  frogs. 
From  the  head  of  the  table  Erdswulf  the  Raven 
watched  him  with  black  eyes. 

Round  the  table  walked  Clotilde,  the  daughter  of 
Erdswulf,  for  whom  the  Braggart  had  gone  on  the 

[205] 


sea-faring.  She  filled  the  wine  horns  of  the  war- 
riors. As  she  poured  the  wine  she  laughed  at  the 
jests  of  the  home-comers  and  tossed  back  her  long 
braids.  She  filled  her  father's  cup — that  was  the 
skull  of  his  enemy  Hackmer.  She  brought  wine  to 
Othlin  the  Weasel-eyed  and  to  Burgard  the  Thief, 
and  to  the  others  until  she  came  to  the  foot  of  the 
great  table  where  the  prisoner  sat — the  Frenchman, 
whom  they  had  placed  there  as  a  jest.  He  was  as 
tall  as  any  of  them  and  dressed  in  black  garments. 
She  stared  at  him  curiously.  He  looked  at  her  and 
smiled  a  little;  there  was  no  fear  in  his  eyes.  His 
wine-cup  was  full. 

In  the  open  space  we  fought  merrily. 
There  we  heaped  the  dead  men. 
Our  swords  flashed  like  sunbeams. 

"The  braggart  fought  well  there,"  said  Burgard 
the  Thief,  who  wore  his  hair  loose  because  his  ears 
had  been  cut  off,  "until  we  others  came  at  them  from 
the  side,  slyly,  and  many  of  them  died." 

"Aye,  I  fought  well,"  cried  the  Braggart,  and 
scratched  among  the  hairs  on  his  great  chest.  "I 
killed  ten  men.  My  sword  went  through  their 
armor  as  through  a  full  wine-skin.  I  chopped  them 
down." 

There  was  much  booty  of  gold  and  silver; 
Fine  clothes  we  heaped  in  the  market-place; 
White  cloths  were  stained  with  the  wine  that  we  drank. 
There  was  fire  and  smoke  and  the  screams  of  women. 

[206] 


Their  shouts  made  the  great  hall  quiver.  The 
Braggart  tore  great  handsful  of  meat  from  the  roast 
and  crammed  them  into  his  mouth.  Erdswulf,  the 
Raven,  cracked  the  bones  with  his  teeth  to  suck  the 
marrow.  At  the  foot  of  the  table  the  Frenchman 
ate  quietly  and  smiled  at  the  Norsemen.  He  poured 
water  in  his  wine.  Clotilde  stood  by  the  Braggart's 
chair  and  listened  to  his  talk.  Under  the  table  the 
dogs  quarreled  among  the  rushes. 

"When  there  was  none  to  stop  us,  we  plundered 
the  town.  Those  Frenchmen  had  riches,  gold  and 
silver  and  in  their  churches  were  glorious  flagons 
and  strange  cross  things  with  pretty  stones  in  them. 
We  took  what  we  wanted  and  the  rest  we  left  out  of 
charity — our  galleys  were  small."  Clotilde  laughed 
merrily  and  clapped  her  hands. 

"And  what  of  him?"  she  cried,  pointing  to  the 
prisoner.    "Did  he  fight  well?" 

"Fight?    He  did  not  fight  at  all—" 

"And  you  say  he  is  a  great  man  in  his  land?" 

"Aye.  He  is  the  leader  of  them  all,  a  Baron. 
They  ought  to  pay  well  to  get  him  back.  And  I 
could  break  their  Baron  with  my  two  hands." 

The  wine  was  affecting  the  Braggart.  He 
stretched  out  his  great,  hairy  arms  and  flexed  the 
muscles  of  them.  Clotilde  stroked  them  admiringly. 
The  Braggart  was  a  monstrous  man,  second  only  in 

[207] 


size  to  Erdswulf  the  Raven,  who  glowered  from  his 
high  place  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

"We  took  him  without  a  blow.  They  told  us 
that  their  leader  was  in  the  castle  and  we  went  there. 
There  was  none  to  admit  us  so  we  went  in.  We 
went  up  a  long  staircase  in  a  turret  with  our  swords 
in  our  hands,  for  we  expected  every  minute  to  find 
him  on  those  curved  stairs.  It  would  have  been  an 
awkward  place  to  fight.  Up  and  around  we  went 
till  we  come  to  the  round  room  where  he  sat — read- 
ing in  a  book.  Him  the  Baron  of  them!  Dressed  in 
black!    He  was  surprised  at  our  coming." 

"He  is  a  woman,"  said  the  Raven  as  he  drank 
from  the  skull  of  his  enemy  Hackmer. 

"They  told  us  that  he  had  been  a  great  fighter." 

"And  he  is  young  yet — "  said  Clotilde. 

"Aye,  but  now  he  does  not  fight ;  he  reads  books. 
So  I  broke  his  head."  Clotilde  looked  at  the  French- 
man and  for  the  first  time  noticed  that  he  wore 
around  his  neck  a  string  of  black  beads  and  from  the 
end  of  it  hung  a  black  cross.  From  time  to  time  the 
stranger's  long  fingers  crept  to  this  rosary.  His 
hands  were  very  white. 

Let  the  wine  flow  as  flowed  the  blood  of  our  enemies. 
Free  is  the  life  of  the  sea-rover; 
Riches  he  brings  to  the  king's-hall. 

The  harp  sang  with  a  mighty  discord.  The 
table  shook  from  the  blows  of  heavy  fists.    Upon  it 

[208] 


were  broken  pieces  of  bread  and  torn  meat;  wine 
dripped  upon  the  rushes.  Othlin  the  Weasel-eyed 
slipped  from  his  bench  and  fell  among  the  dogs. 
The  Braggart  rose  to  his  feet:  he  staggered  in  his 
walk. 

"Aye,  thou'rt  a  woman,"  he  cried  and  jerked 
the  Frenchman  to  his  feet.    The  prisoner  smiled. 

"Thy  blood  is  like  water  —  bilge- water.  We 
took  thy  strong  town  while  thou  wast  reading  a 
book."  He  spat  in  the  lean  man's  face.  The  French- 
man went  very  white;  his  eyes  flamed  with  anger. 
His  hands  crept  to  the  black  beads  upon  his  breast; 
his  lips  moved.  He  stood  quite  straight  without 
flinching. 

Clotilde  stared  at  the  two  and  marveled.  The 
Frenchman  stood  with  spit  upon  his  face — and  yet 
he  was  not  afraid.  Erdswulf  the  Raven  sat  at  the 
head  of  the  table  with  his  chin  in  his  hands. 

"Thou  goest  too  far,  Sigurth.  He  has  eaten 
our  meat." 

"It  is  not  seemly  for  women  to  eat  with  the  war- 
riors," snarled  the  Braggart.  "Go  to  thy  place, 
woman."  He  struck  the  prisoner  with  his  open 
palm,  a  mighty  blow.  The  lean  man  fell  among  the 
wargear  along  the  wall.  Clotilde  watched  him  as 
he  drew  himself  up  to  his  knees,  his  hand  upon  the 
rosary.  Slowly  she  stole  to  his  side  till  she  saw  his 
eyes;  they  were  shining  with  happiness.     She  bent 

[209] 


over  to  look  into  his  face.     He  smiled  to  her;  his 
fingers  slipped  along  the  beads,  his  lips  moved. 
Sancta  Maria,  ora  pro  nobis. 

Clotilde  walked  to  the  side  of  her  father's  chair, 
her  head  bowed,  thinking. 

"Father,  I  would  make  the  next  sea-faring  to 
the  land  of  the  French." 

Erdswulf  sat  with  his  chin  on  his  clenched 
hands.    After  a  time  he  bowed  his  head. 


[210] 


Richard  Aldington 

A  Playntyve  Ballade 


A  Playntyve  Ballade 


HEN  Sappho  sang  in  "the  Isles  of 
Greece," 
When  Ibycus  founded  a  new  free 
verse, 
And    Pindaros    spun    his    golden 
Fleece 
Of  words  that  were  golden  and  keen  and  terse; 
What  said  the  critics — race  perverse? 
"The  fellows  have  no  more  bones  than  a  squid, 

The  race  of  poets  grows  worse  and  worse : 
Why  don't  they  write  as  Homer  did?" 

Virgil  snivelled  of  "delicate  bees" — 

That  was  great,  for  it  filled  his  purse — 
But  the  world  grew  sick  with  a  strange  disease 
*  Which  the  Christians  claimed  they  were  sent  to 
disperse. 
They  invented  rhymes  and  rhythms  diverse, 
In  queer  acrostics  their  God  they  hid : 

Quoth  the  critics:   "Poetry's  on  its  hearse, — 
Why  in  hell  don't  they  write  as  Virgil  did?" 

[213] 


The  devil  take  'em  all,  gabbling  geese, 

May  he  take  'em  cunningly  in  reverse, 
Plague  'em  with  boils  and  bees  and  fleas, 

In  seething  cauldron  their  heads  immerse! 

Pot-bellied  pedlars,  hear  them  rehearse 
The  old  gibes,  false  as  a  Brummagem  quid: 

"The  imagists'  faults  are  like  thorns  on  furze, — 
"Why,  WHY  don't  they  write  as  Tennyson  did?' 


ENVOY 

Prince,  in  the  nineteen  ninety  threes 

When  the  young  men  pen  a  rebellious  screed, 

Their  critics  will  boom  like  the  booming  seas: 
"Now,  why  don't  they  write  as  the  Imagists  did?' 


[214] 


Haniel  Long 

Antonia  and  Dionigi 


Antonia  andDionigi 


HE  beautiful  Antonia  sat  in  her  arbor, 
gazing  down  a  valley  of  summer  twi- 
light. In  the  lap  of  her  golden  gown  lay  a 
novel  with  a  blue  cover;  yet  it  was  not  of  the 
novel  she  discoursed  to  Dionigi,  who  occupied 
a  seat  near  by.  She  had  returned  the  day  be- 
fore from  a  harrowing  visit  with  his  kins- 
woman Violante,  and  she  was  full  of  the  tragic 
termination  of  the  lady's  affairs  with  Sixtus.  The 
tale  had  been  an  excellent  pretext  for  summoning 
the  young  abbe  to  her  side.  And  of  course,  as  the 
first  to  be  at  the  scene  of  the  conflagration,  and  in- 
deed to  be  there  picnicing  in  the  ruins  while  the 
ashes  were  as  yet  unraked,  Antonia  truly  had  need 
of  a  confidant,  for  her  soul  was  seething.  The  abbe, 
for  his  part,  was  not  afraid  to  speak  of  passion. 
Safe  so  far  from  its  devastation,  he  found  an  un- 
selfish pleasure  in  marking  the  vicissitudes  of  others. 
The  lady  continued  to  illuminate  the  high  spots 
of  the  melancholy  adventure.  "Sixtus  and  Don 
Diego,  then,  were  on  the  battlefield  at  the  same 

[217  "J 


time  for  a  day  or  so.  As  a  result  a  sirocco  brewed 
from  the  two  irreconcilable  elements  coming  to- 
gether under  the  same  roof.  The  storm  was  so  vio- 
lent that  it  blew  the  top  off  the  palazzo  of  the  Con- 
tessa,  cracked  the  windows,  and  darkened  the  lights 
for  some  time  to  come.  In  the  course  of  the  cy- 
clone's progress  Sixtus  broke  for  cover,  as  you 
know;  the  Spaniard  likewise  mounted  his  charger, 
and  left  for  good,  fire  and  smoke  coming  forth  from 
his  nostrils,  the  conflagration  mounting  to  the 
troubled  heavens,  and  ashes  covering  a  once  charm- 
ing landscape!  Words  are  horribly  feeble  for  so 
sublime  a  subject. 

"Violante  has  great  charm  and  sweetness,  and 
creates  unknowingly,  I  suppose,  these  ghastly  sit- 


uations." 


Dionigi  shuddered.  Truly,  these  were  lurid  de- 
tails; and  something  warned  him  that  the  music  of 
Antonia's  speech  was  to  disclose  another  and  more 
agitating  motif.  He  prepared  himself  for  delicious 
danger. 

"Yet  all  this  is  incredible,"  he  said  reflectively. 

"Whether  you  believe  it  or  not,"  whispered  An- 
tonia,  "Don  Diego  went  so  far  as  to  refer  in  horri- 
fied tones  to  the  immoral  conduct  of  the  Contessa 
in  greedily  eating  two  desserts  at  the  same  time. 
Violante,  maddened  at  the  injustice  of  the  observa- 
tion, called  on  the  gods  of  her  ancestors  to  come  to 
her  rescue,  and  prove  her  innocence.  But  the  deities 

[218] 


preserved  a  sullen  silence;  and  Diego,  with  a  last 
crow  of  derision,  hurled  his  effects  into  a  basket  and 
sprang  into  the  darkness  as  the  clock  struck 
twelve!" 

"So  the  tree  is  now  birdless.  And  how  does  all 
this  make  you  feel,  Antonia?" 

"It  lights  bonfires  inside  me,"  answered  the 
lady,  plunging  into  a  sea  of  laughter.  The  abbe 
joined  her  in  the  plunge,  though  he  wondered  at  the 
episode's  not  seeming  to  her  more  instructive. 

Dionigi  had  entered  the  church  merely  at  the 
suggestion  of  Violante;  yet  he  was  happy  as  a 
priest.  The  delicate  landscape  in  which  he  dwelt, 
and  the  opinion,  generally  held,  that  he  was  destined 
to  unusual  honors,  relieved  him  of  the  necessity  of 
leading  a  life  of  vigil  and  prayer.  But  there  was  a 
goodness  in  him,  and  an  indifference  to  ambition 
and  the  world,  which  allowed  him  to  be  generally 
tolerated.  He  had  a  romantic  feeling  about  his 
chastity;  he  enjoyed  it  greatly,  especially  when  he 
was  conscious  of  being  tempted.  So  calm  was  his 
blood  and  so  resilient  his  physical  strength,  that 
bodily  existence  was  to  him  a  continual  spring  of 
the  year,  and  the  life  of  the  soul  a  continual  Easter- 
tide. He  liked  to  live,  to  a  surprising  extent;  he 
liked  the  house  of  the  body,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
appropriate  that  the  sould  should  have  its  dwelling 
there.  Walking  at  night  beneath  the  stars,  or  down 
the  streets  of  day-time  among  children  and  flowers, 

[219] 


he  liked  also  the  house  of  the  world;  and  he  saw 
nothing  incongruous  in  the  belief  that  the  drama 
of  eternity  began  in  this  visible  pavilion.  He  often 
laughed  aloud,  for  no  particular  reason;  if  he  was 
a  holy  young  man,  he  was  likewise  a  mirthful. 

Nevertheless,  Antonia  felt  sometimes  that  the 
moment  the  abbe  formulated  his  notorious  doctrine, 
namely,  that  while  friendship  may  have  room  for 
passion,  passion  never  has  room  for  friendship,  was 
not  a  moment  of  unmixed  good  fortune  for  her. 
Antonia,  deep  in  her  soul,  held  a  conviction  that 
passion  rather  than  friendship  is  the  banner  under 
which  to  set  out  for  the  golden  fleece. 

The  immature  abbe,  his  thoughts  full  of  Vio- 
lante,  said  to  her,  "Ah,  Antonia,  you  and  I,  having 
occupied  seats  at  a  drama,  which  bared  the  best  and 
the  worst  of  human  nature,  and  being  subtly  bound 
by  the  minute  examination  of  those  so  paraded 
virtues  and  defects,  to  the  additional  possession  of 
which  we  ourselves  are  far  too  wise  to  make  dis- 
claimer— what  was  I  about  to  say?  Ah  yes,  that  we 
know  too  much,  you  and  I;  and  so  I  have  come  to 
your  pleasant  garden  this  afternoon  only  to  greet 
you,  with  no  wish  to  discuss  with  you  the  import 
of  the  lower  mysteries.  Specifically,  Antonia,  I  but 
say  Hello;  or,  if  it  be  more  than  that,  I  but  wink, 
with  such  a  quiver  of  the  eyelid  as  augurs  cast  upon 
each  other  in  the  streets  of  Caesar." 

[220] 


Yet  so  charming  a  youth,  and  one  leading  so 
holy  a  life,  could  not  always  pass  by  the  import  of 
the  lower  mysteries,  especially  in  the  presence  of 
the  impassioned  Antonia.  From  cool  angles  he 
had  at  times  in  the  past  ventured  to  approach  the 
subject. 

Once  he  had  remarked,  "Is  it  not  better  to  be- 
lieve that  men  are  brothers  because  they  have  a 
sense  of  humor,  than  because  of  the  primordial?" 

Another  time,  when  they  had  discussed  certain 
lively  anecdotes  current  in  their  group,  in  that  pleas- 
ing society  which  then  frequented  the  villas  and 
castellos  along  the  hills  above  the  river,  he  said, 
"We  do  not  tell  these  tales  to  keep  our  attention 
upon  droll  subjects.  Ah  no,  rather  that  our  atten- 
tion, already  too  assiduous,  may  be  controlled  by 
the  fear  of  ridicule." 

To-day,  glancing  at  the  blue  novel  in  Antonia's 
lap,  he  inquired  as  to  the  book's  merit. 

"It  contains  unusual  phrases,"  she  answered, 
"con  amore,  for  instance;  and  here  is  an  amusing 
sentence,  'I  had  a  delightful  experience  with  an 
elderly  apple  tree.'  But  the  writer  has  not  compre- 
hended what  so  astute  an  observer  as  your  cherubic 
self  could  hardly  miss,  that  in  this  life  passion  is  the 
main  interest.'  His  book  is  like  dining  on  cold 
boiled  potatoes.  For  a  moment  the  characters  are 
incredible  phantoms  in  the  mind's  eye;  and  then 
they  disappear,  forever." 

[221] 


She  closed  the  book  without  regret,  but  went 
on  abruptly,  "What  is  sin?" 

The  abbe  looked  about  him  nervously,  as  one 
who  exhibits  a  priceless  jewel.  "To  sin,"  he  pro- 
nounced with  an  angelic  smile,  "is  to  take  seriously 
the  lower  mysteries." 

Antonia  was  thoughtful.  "This  is  a  season 
marked  by  violent  passions,"  she  said.  "Yet  I  have 
escaped  all  but  the  merest  nibble  at  the  tropical 
product."     She  sighed. 

"Our  thoughts  must  not  stray  toward  the 
jungle,"  said  the  young  abbe,  crossing  himself. 
"One  never  glances  that  way  without  seeing  the  sun 
on  the  flank  of  a  centaur.    We  must  be  peaceful." 

Antonia  smiled.  "Peace  never  pauses  long  in 
my  agitated  dwelling.  The  atmosphere  is  too 
highly  charged.  But  I  shall  try  to  be  peaceful,  come 
what  may,  if  you  assist  me."  The  lady  added,  "Yet 
if  ever  a  human  being  lived  intensely  and  felt  vol- 
canically  the  whole  emotional  range,  'tis  I." 

The  abbe  looked  as  though  his  conscience 
pricked  him  for  being  unable  to  make  a  similar  con- 
fession; but  Antonio  continued,  "Yet  it  is  wonder- 
ful to  be  with  you,  with  whom  I  can  planer  so  se- 
renely over  the  heavy  artillery  of  the  more  explosive 
emotions.  Which  is  not  to  say  that  you  would  not 
tempt  the  madonna  in  person,  dear  boy." 

Rising  from  his  seat  with  a  resolute  look  in  his 
eye,  as  though  he  had  at  last  made  up  his  mind  that 

[222] 


he  must  act,  and  act  decisively,  Dionigi  said,  "May 
I  retire  to  your  library  for  a  few  moments?" 

Somewhat  astonished,  Antonia  acceded  to  the 
request.  Five  minutes  later,  the  abbe  reappeared  on 
the  lawn,  carrying  a  number  of  large  and  well-worn 
volumes.  Antonia  recognized  them  as  a  series  of 
monograms  on  the  activities  of  Aphrodite,  with 
her  favorite  copy  of  The  Memoirs  of  Cleopatra  ly- 
ing on  top.  Dionigi  moved  solemnly,  and  her  clair- 
voyant soul  told  her  that  the  abbe  was  about  to  deal 
the  philosophy  of  passion  a  monstrous  blow. 

It  was  at  least  a  half  hour  later  that  the  abbe 
reverently  deposited  at  his  feet  the  texts  he  had 
been  elucidating,  and,  gazing  at  Antonia  with  the 
smile  of  a  seraph,  summed  up  his  position. 

"These  facts,  dear  lady,  permit  but  one  infer- 
ence. How  could  Semiramis  tear  herself  from  the 
arms  of  one  lover  only  to  hurl  herself  bodily  into  the 
arms  of  the  next?  How  could  Dido  weep  so  long 
for  iEneas,  and  then  burn  herself  on  a  funeral  pyre? 
How  could  Paolos  and  Francesca  pursue  their  in- 
terests in  the  very  household  of  the  nervous  Mala- 
testa?  There  is  only  one  explanation;  they  lacked 
a  sense  of  humor — are  you  shocked,  or  do  I  weary 
you?" 

"I  am  in  no  degree  shocked  (a  word  totally  un- 
known to  me"  ),  said  Antonia.  "If  for  the  moment 
I  appear  to  lack  my  customary  verve,  it  is  that  I 
begin  to  suspect,  after  going  through  these  volumes, 

[2231 


that  the  grand  passions  are  not  my  genre;  I  shall 
have  to  cling  to  the  ribald.  Have  you  observed  how 
the  merry  long  to  be  tragic?" 

"I  really  ought  not  to  discourage  you,"  mur- 
mured the  abbe. 

"My  dear  lad,"  returned  Antonia,  "it  has  been 
most  profitable  and  diverting.  You  give  me  the 
classic  cup  of  water  in  the  desert.  And  you  might 
have  been  sure  when  you  brought  these  quaint 
chronicles  that  lines  celebrating  walking,  talking 
and  sleeping,  all  hand  in  hand,  and  in  the  setting  of 
so  many  vanished  Springs,  would  go  to  my  heart. 
These  talks  with  you  are  the  most  delightful  of  my 
checkered  life.  I  am  enormously  fond  of  you!  And 
I  was  never  one  given  to  crowds,  but  always  to 
corners.  Ah,  these  tales  fascinate  my  ever  gypsy- 
like imagination! 

"But,  Dionigi,  the  types  one  meets  in  this  land 
of  passion:  these  gorgeous  harlot-queens,  these 
ravishers  from  the  wars,  and  the  pathetic  young 
fledglings,  fresh  from  the  nest  and  taking  to  kisses 
as  ducks  to  water,  they  affect  me  strangely.  The 
very  atmosphere  forbids  the  reckless  speech  so  na- 
tive to  my  naked  tongue.    It  is  all  so  serious.  .  .  ." 

The  abbe  interrupted  her.  "You  have  said  it; 
it  is  all  so  serious.  The  air  is  sultry  in  these  old 
tales;  the  talk  is  dull.  I  thought  you  would  notice 
it.  Take  the  notorious  infatuation  of  Helen.  There 
are  no  epigrams,  no  witticisms;  we  find  no  keen  re- 

[224] 


joiners  from  Paris,  no  consummate  ironies  from 
Menelaus.  And  was  there  ever  such  opportunity? 
But  nobody  grins;  nobody  laughs!  One  hearty 
burst  of  laughter  would  tear  this  world  of  passion 
from  one  end  to  the  other.  Tristram  and  Iseult  ap- 
proach each  other  pontifically;  they  kiss  without 
esprit;  they  leave  no  jest  behind  them." 

"Priceless;  priceless!"  rippled  Antonia.  "Dio- 
nigi,  I  love  you  hotly.  An  atmosphere  such  as  you 
create  makes  a  conservatory  but  a  cold  thing.  It 
is  true,  you  are  too  good  to  savourer  alone.  Why 
should  I  not  see  you  more  often?  I  am  filled  with 
sulphurous  thoughts." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  abbe,  "but  what  is  the  ex- 
planation of  these  phenomena?  It  is  important  to 
remember.  Let  us  look  about  us;  everybody  is 
happy  enough  until — well,  there  is  something  about 
passion  that  is  distinctively  not  funny,  at  least  to  the 
victims." 

Dionigi  rose  to  go. 

"And  you  think  a  good  way  to  stave  off  the 
malady  is  to  be  funny,"  commented  Antonia,  look- 
ing up  at  the  stars  of  evening.  "But  must  everything 
be  funny?" 

They  strolled  side  by  side  to  the  far  end  of  the 
lawn,  to  the  wicket  gate.  The  abbe  considered  the 
question.  He  took  the  lady  in  his  arms  by  way  of 
answer,  and  kissed  her,  rather  fervently.  Antonia 
was  petrified. 

[225] 


"My  dear,"  said  the  youth,  with  the  look  of  one 
acquainted  with  the  higher  mysteries,  "everything 
must  be  funny;  but  surely,  to  friendship  nothing  is 
forbidden,  so  long  as  it  be  funny." 

"Dionigi,"  said  Antonia,  recovering  her  speech, 
and  with  a  new  note  in  her  voice,  a  note  that  seemed 
almost  hard,  "Dionigi,  I  hate  to  say  it;  but  you  are 
an  idiot." 

She  turned  abruptly,  and  trailed  her  beautiful 
yellow  gown  off  into  the  darkness. 


[226] 


Carl  Van  Vechten 

Edgar  Saltus—A  Postscript 


Sdgar  Saltus:  A  Postscript 


WO  phenomena,  frequently  recurring,  are 
to  be  noted  in  the  unfathomable  history 
of  American  letters:  one,  the  tremendous  effect 
produced  by  comets  whose  effulgence  for  the 
time  being  completely  eclipses  the  remainder 
of  the  literary  milky  way  in  the  eyes  of  the 
public  and  the  critics;  and  the  other,  the  care- 
less attitude  assumed  by  these  gentry  towards  the 
fixed  stars.  As  a  general  rule,  these  true  constella- 
tions are  not  observed  at  all  until  they  have  been 
shining  for  two  or  three  decades,  sometimes  longer. 
When  they  are  observed  by  their  contemporaries,  it 
is  for  the  purpose  of  excoriating  them  for  having  the 
impertinence  to  pretend  to  shine. 

Babbalanja,  the  mystical  philosopher  in  Her- 
man Melville's  greatly  underrated  romance,  "Mardi," 
has  this  to  say  of  fame:  "Not  seldom  to  be  famous, 
is  to  be  widely  known  for  what  you  are  not,  says 
Alla-Malolla.  Whence  it  comes,  as  old  Bardianna 
has  it,  that  for  years  a  man  may  move  unnoticed 
among  his  fellows;  but  all  at  once,  by  some  chance 

[229] 


attitude,  foreign  to  his  habit,  become  a  trumpet-full 
for  fools;  though,  in  himself,  the  same  as  ever." 

Edgar  Allan  Poe,  Herman  Melville  himself,  and 
Ambrose  Bierce,  seemingly  never  struck  this  atti- 
tude and,  as  a  consequence,  they  had  to  wait  for 
fame  until  they  could  be  admired  for  what  they 
really  were  all  the  time. 

I,  too,  have  waxed  epigrammatic  on  this  theme: 
"Fame,"  I  once  wrote,  "is  a  quaint,  old-fashioned 
body,  who  loves  to  be  pursued.  She  seldom,  if  ever, 
runs  after  anybody  except  in  her  well-known  role  of 
necrophile." 

On  July  31,  1921,  another  illustrious  obscurity 
in  American  letters,  Edgar  Saltus,  died  at  the  age 
of  sixty-three.  A  few  book-collectors  had  found  him 
out,  but  to  the  general  public,  although  he  had  been 
writing  since  1884  and  had  published  over  thirty 
books,  his  name  is  probably  even  less  familiar  than 
that  of  such  a  special  figure  as  Ezra  Pound  or  Paul 
Claudel.  Will  death  bear  him  a  belated  laurel 
wreath? 

II. 

In  my  paper  in  "The  Merry-Go-Round,"  I  do 
not  think  I  understated  or  over-emphasized  the  case 
of  Edgar  Saltus.  The  neglect  of  this  man  is  one  of 
the  most  astounding  phenomena  in  the  scoriae  his- 
tory of  our  national  literature.  Benjamin  de  Cas- 
seres  put  it  thus:  "There  are  three  mysteries  in 

[230] 


American  literature — the  appearance  of  Edgar  Allan 
Poe,  the  disappearance  of  Ambrose  Bierce,  and  the 
burial  alive  of  Edgar  Saltus."  A  few  months  before 
he  died,  James  Huneker  wrote  me:  "Twenty  years 
ago,  Vance  Thompson  and  I  promised  ourselves  the 
pleasure  of  writing  a  definitive  article  on  Edgar — 
and  we  didn't.  Now  you  have  done  it,  and  beauti- 
fully. .  .  .  Edgar  is  a  genius.  George  Moore 
once  told  me  that  Walt  Whitman  and  Saltus  were 
the  only  two  Americans  he  read."  But  let  Mr. 
Moore,  in  a  letter  to  me,  speak  for  himself:  "I  was 
especially  interested  in  your  review  of  Edgar  Saltus, 
for  it  has  always  been  a  puzzle  to  me  why  he  did  not 
achieve  a  really  memorable  piece  of  work.  I  attach 
much  importance  to  the  writer's  name;  some  people 
think  undue  importance.  However  that  may  be 
Edgar  Saltus  seems  at  first  sight  an  inspiring  name, 
yet  it  did  not  inspire  the  owner.  Edgar  Saltus  is 
cultivated  and  possessed  by  a  brain  and  style — the 
equipment  is  perfect  and  we  sit  agape  when  we  think 
of  him." 

Saltus  was  the  son  of  Victor  Hugo  by  Schopen- 
hauer. Strange  bedfellows  these!  Their  marital 
antics  have  resulted  in  strange  children.  His  fictions 
are  experiments  in  decorative  irony;  they  are  pessi- 
mistic allegories.  His  best  works  in  this  form,  "Mr. 
Incoul's  Misadventure"  and  "The  Truth  About  Tris- 
trem  Varick,"  both  date  from  the  eighties.  The  first 
shows  how  cruel  a  thing  is  abstract  justice;  the  sec- 

[231] 


ond  exhibits  a  pursuit  of  the  ideal,  which  lands  the 
idealist  in  the  electric  chair.  While  these  books  are 
superior,  even  such  flamboyant  romances  as  "The 
Pace  That  Kills,"  Madam  Sapphira,"  and  "A  Trans- 
action in  Hearts"  are  lyric  melodramas,  written  with 
ecstacy.  There  is  about  them  something  of  the  hard 
brilliant  glitter  of  Webster  and  Tourneur. 

Saltus  experimented  in  history,  fiction,  poetry, 
literary  criticism,  and  philosophy,  but  his  master- 
piece, of  course,  is  "Imperial  Purple."  The  soaring 
splendor  of  this  book  remained  unsurpassed  by  its 
author.  Indeed,  it  is  rare  in  all  literature.  Page 
after  page  that  Walter  Pater,  Oscar  Wilde  or  J.  K. 
Huysmans  would  have  proudly  signed,  might  be  set 
before  you.  The  man  writes  with  invention,  with 
sap,  with  urge.  The  historical  form  has  at  last 
found  a  poet  to  render  it  supportable.  Blood  flows 
across  the  pages;  slaughter  and  booty  are  the  prin- 
cipal themes;  and  yet  Beauty  struts  triumphant 
through  the  horror. 

Late  in  life  he  tried  to  repeat  this  performance 
in  his  history  of  the  Romanoffs,  published  as  "The 
Imperial  Orgy."  I  prefer  Saltus'  original  title, 
"Imperial  Sables."  In  this  book,  he  deliberately 
shut  his  eyes  to  all  extenuating  circumstances.  It 
reeks  of  gore.    It  is  a  lithograph  printed  in  blood. 

Of  his  style  Oscar  Wilde  once  remarked:  "In 
Edgar  Saltus'  work,  passion  struggles  with  gram- 
mar on  every  page."     It  might,  indeed,  be  said  of 

[232] 


him,  as  Leon  Bloy  wrote  of  Huysmans,  that  he 
dragged  "his  images  by  the  heels  or  the  hair  up  and 
down  the  worm-eaten  staircase  of  terrified  syntax." 
But,  repeating  this  phrase,  we  should  be  wise  to 
remember  that  "grammar"  and  "glamour"  stem 
from  the  same  root.  Percival  Pollard  pictured  Sal- 
tus  as  "an  author  drunken  with  his  own  phrases," 
"a  dervish  dancing  in  his  prose."  He  never  wrote 
from  his  heart;  he  seldom,  indeed,  wrote  from  his 
brain;  he  wrote  with  his  nerves. 


III. 


Of  the  man  himself  little  is  known.  That  much 
is  not  pleasant.  He  was  an  egoist,  seldom  with  a 
good  word  for  another  author,  sensitive,  bitter,  cyn- 
ical, and  at  times,  perhaps,  even  malicious.  In  the 
nineties  he  had  known  such  men  as  Oscar  Wilde, 
Edgar  Fawcett  and  J.  K.  Huysmans.  He  knew  then, 
too,  Vance  Thompson  and  James  Huneker.  For  the 
past  twenty  years,  however,  he  had  withdrawn  from 
the  world.  He  had  few,  if  any,  friends.  Huneker  in 
1920  told  me  that  he  had  not  seen  him  for  ten  years. 
He  appeared  pretty  regularly  at  the  Manhattan  Club 
in  Madison  Square  for  his  mail  and  for  a  whisky  and 
soda,  until  prohibition  cut  even  this  from  him. 

He  was  a  strangely  dstinguished  figure,  some- 
thing of  a  dandy,  handsome  in  his  youth,  if  one  can 
judge  from  his  pictures,  and  later,  while  more  mas- 

[233] 


sive,  still  inspiring,  short,  but  with  the  head  of  a 
personage.  Curiously  enough,  he  really  looked  like 
a  man  of  letters.  He  is  the  only  author  I  have  ever 
seen  who  did. 

There  may  have  been  reasons  for  his  bitterness. 
I  have  heard  that  he  suffered  reverses  of  fortune  in 
Wall  Street,  which  necessitated  alterations  in  his 
mode  of  living.  Then,  while  he  carefully  and  ten- 
derly worked  at  his  miniature  jewelled  masterpieces, 
he  watched  the  glory  go  to  his  inferiors.  Galling 
enough,  no  doubt.  More  than  all,  he  stuttered,  a 
physical  affliction  which  cuts  many  softer  personal- 
ities away  from  social  intercourse. 

I  have  set  down  a  few  plausible  excuses  for  the 
unpleasant  impression  his  manner  and  his  conversa- 
tion created  when  finally  I  met  him.  But,  all  the 
same,  I  do  not  think  he  had  changed.  In  the  early 
nineties,  he  was  the  same  acidulous  cynic,  the  same 
caustic  wit.  In  1891,  his  first  wife  divorced  him.  In 
an  interview,  published  in  a  newspaper  of  the  period, 
Saltus  is  quoted  as  saying  of  his  father-in-law,  whom 
he  blamed  for  the  action,  "I  shall  not  forget  Mr. 
Read.  He  shall  have  a  divorce  from  my  bed  and 
board,  the  alimony  for  which  he  has  asked  as  well. 
Now  that  the  charges  he  made  are  withdrawn  I  can 
refuse  him  nothing.  I  have  put  him  down  in  my 
will.  He  is  a  member  of  the  Society  for  the  Protec- 
tion of  Animals,  and  in  recognition  of  his  affection 
for  beasts,  I  have  left  him  a  mirror — with  reversion 

[234] 


to  his  charming  representatives  at  the  bar."  It  also 
must  be  remembered,  in  any  consideration  of  his 
philosophy,  that  "The  Philosophy  of  Disenchant- 
ment," "The  Anatomy  of  Negation,"  "Mr.  Incoul's 
Misadventure,"  and  "The  Truth  About  Tristrem 
Varick,"  even  the  titles  of  which  are  revealing,  were 
all  published  in  the  eighties.  He  was  born  doubting 
the  world  and  its  women.  Nevertheless,  it  seems 
that  he  was  married  three  times! 

Thus  we  must  accept  him  in  his  own  trenchant 
humor.  He  was  sufficiently  inhuman  so  that  he 
could  not  create  a  human  character.  But  this  is  not 
dispraise.  It  is  exact  description  of  his  morbid, 
erotic  art,  often  inspiring  dread  and  amazement,  but 
never  pity.  His  extraordinary  style,  of  which  he  was 
master  from  his  first  book  (a  study  of  Balzac)  in- 
sures him  readers,  who  will  now  doubtless  flock  to 
him  in  greater  numbers.  And  it  will  be  no  surprise 
to  his  admirers  to  find  him  finally  allotted  a  definite 
niche  in  American  literature,  somewhere  between 
those  occupied  by  Edgar  Allan  Poe  and  William 
Dean  Howells. 


[235] 


Julian  Street 

To  an  Autograph  Collector 


To  An  Autograph  Collector 


Y  DEAR  YOUNG  ADMIRER: 
No;  I  would  not  advise  you  to 
become  an  author.  It  is  better, 
always,  for  a  young  man  to  try  to 
earn  his  living  in  some  honest  way,  before  finally 
abandoning  himself  to  literature. 

As  to  my  autograph,  which  you  request,  I  en- 
close you  herewith  my  regular  rates,  and  will  be 
glad  to  furnish  you  with  autographs,  as  specified,  on 
receipt  of  certified  check  or  postal  order  for  the 
proper  amount. 

RATES 
One  autograph,  name  only,  on  small,  cheap  card, 
50  cents. 

One  autograph,  name  only,  on  fine  gilt  edge 
card,  75  cents. 

One  autograph,  with  words  "Yours  truly,"  $1.00. 
One   autograph   inscribed   to   you,   personally, 
$1.50. 

One  autograph  letter,  one  page  long  (rather 
formal),  $2.00. 

[239] 


One  autograph  letter,  two  pages  (informal), 
$5.00. 

Extra  pages  added  to  letters,  each,  $2.50. 

A  $1.00  book,  with  twenty  word  inscription  and 
autograph,  $10.00. 

A  $1.00  book,  with  long  familiar  inscription, 
enabling  purchaser  to  claim  to  know  me  intimately, 
$20.00. 

Love  letters,  $50.00. 

Week  end  visits,  Saturday  to  Monday  morning, 
$100  (and  exp.). 

The  last  named  rate  does  not  include  readings, 
which  will  be  charged  for  at  the  rate  of  $25  for  the 
first  half  hour,  and  $12.50  for  each  additional  quarter 
hour  thereafter.  The  rate,  however,  includes  meet- 
ing five  of  your  friends.  Additional  friends  will  be 
met  at  the  rate  of  $5  each  for  men,  and  $7.50  each 
for  women  under  thirty  years  of  age.  Women  over 
thirty  will  be  met  at  the  rate  of  $2.50  additional  for 
each  five  years  of  age. 

For  calling  me  by  first  name  before  five  people, 
$12.50. 

For  calling  me  by  first  name  before  unlimited 
number,  $20. 

These  rates  are  subject  to  change  without 
notice.     Satisfaction  guaranteed. 

Trusting  that  this  letter  will  supply  you  with 
the  desired  information  and  thanking  you  for  your 
interest,  believe  me. 

[240] 


Rudyard  Kipling 

A  Ballade  of  Photographs 


A  Ballade  of  Photograph 


EHOLD,  O  Fortune's  favored  one 

To  whom  this  dainty  Book  may  fall, 
Pachmarri,  Muttra,  Brindabun, 

Shall  rise  before  you  at  your  call — 
Benares'  ghat,  the  Agra  Hall, 
And  verdant  slopes  of  Ranikhet, 
Are  yours  to  gaze  upon  in  all 
The  pomp  of  full-plate  cabinet, 

Mussoorie  woods  and  boulders  dun, 

Dead  homes  of  kings,  and  streams  that  crawl 
Leagues  broad  beneath  a  burning  sun, 

A  green  bamboo  embattled  wall — 

A  silver  tarn,  a  floating  yawl, 
Squat  shrine  and  Muslim  minaret, 

Are  yours,  at  price  exceeding  small 
In  pomp  of  full-plate  cabinet. 

And  have  you  ne'er  let  fancy  run 

Athwart  the  East  we  hold  in  thrall; 

And  have  you  ne'er  with  rod  and  gun 
Left  dusty  lines  or  dreary  Mall? 

[243] 


Then  turn  the  page  where  torrents  brawl 
And  Nature's  sumptuous  throne  is  set 

'Twixt  giant  rock  and  leafage  tall 
In  pomp  of  full-plate  cabinet. 

Prince  or  Princess,  now  you  have  won, 
This  Book  with  gorgeous  views  beset, 

Procure  a  camera  and  run 

Yourself  to  full-plate  cabinet. 


[244] 


Gossip 


Gossip  About  the  Foregoing 


BALLADE  of  a  Book  of  Hours,  by  that 
prolific  author,  Anonymous,  is  an  engag- 
ing bit  that  I  found  in  a  Mosher  cata- 
logue. 

The  District  Visitor,  by  Richard 
Middleton,  first  appeared  in  the  English 
Review.  It  is,  I  think,  a  masterpiece  of 
sardonic  humor.  I  reprint  it  by  the  per- 
mission of  Henry  Savage,  Mr.  Middle- 
ton's  executor,  who  for  some  reason  failed  to  include  it  in  any 
of  the  posthumous  books  of  that  notable  writer. 

The  Madness  of  Spring  by  the  same  author,  appeared  in 
the  Academy  (London),  and  has  not  been  collected  until  now 
in  book  covers.  At  the  end  of  that  paragraph  late  in  the 
essay,  in  which  the  millionaires  and  the  small  boy  put  out  to 
sea  in  a  leaky  boat,  readers  will  please  add  this  phrase :  "talk- 
ing pleasant  philosophies  as  they  went."  The  printer  dropped 
it  in  setting  the  copy,  and  it  was  impracticable  later  to  insert 
it.    Apologies ! 

Dowson's  fine  poem,  The  Passing  of  Tennyson,  has  been 
a  derelict  for  some  years;  it  does  not  appear  in  his  collected 
works.  Some  years  ago,  Mr.  Edwin  B.  Hill  of  Ysleta,  Texas, 
privately  printed  it  as  a  single  leaflet,  since  which  time  a 
number  of  magazines  have  appropriated  it. 

Discovery  of  anything  by  Stephen  Crane,  at  this  time  of 
day,  is  noteworthy.  At  the  Pit  Door  appears  to  me  to  be  an 
amusing  and  worth-while  bit  of  salvage;  while  The  Great 
Boer  Trek  is  an  important  and  careful  bit  of  historical  writing. 

[247] 


These  items  appeared  originally  in  the  Philistine  and  the  Cos- 
mopolitan, respectively. 

The  Feast,  that  vivid  sonnet  by  Edgar  Saltus,  is  one  of  a 
number  of  uncollected  poems  by  a  man  whose  genius  is  uni- 
versally recognized.  Mr.  William  Griffith  accepted  it,  some 
years  ago,  for  a  Sunday  newspaper  magazine  that  he  was 
editing.  The  author  received  the  magazine's  regular  poetry 
rate,  which  was  not  high.  A  well-known  artist,  who  illus- 
trated it,  however,  received  the  greater  sum  of  $25  for  his 
drawing,  which,  coming  to  the  ears  of  Saltus,  made  the  poet 
indignant.  He  shrieked  to  Griffith,  over  the  dinner  table,  one 
day,  and  after  a  torrent  of  outraged  temperament  was  him- 
self paid  the  difference  between  what  he  had  received  and  the 
sum  received  by  the  artist.      There  is  a  moral  to  this  note. 

Hubert  Crackanthorpe's  A  Fellside  Tragedy  was  given 
me  in  manuscript  by  his  mother,  Mrs.  Blanche  Crackanthorpe ; 
and  later  I  published  it  in  the  Double  Dealer.  It  is  not  pleas- 
ant, and  not  highly  important,  but  it  is  a  bit  of  uncollected 
Crackanthorpe. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Enoch  Jones,  by  Laurence  Housman,  are 
obviously  parodies  of  the  Spoon  River  Anthology.  They 
were  done  while  Mr.  Housman  was  in  Chicago  some  years 
ago  and  appeared  in  the  Chicago  Tribune. 

Selwyn  Image's  somewhat  erotic  stanzas,  To  L,  never 
have  appeared  before  in  print,  I  believe.  The  manuscript  is 
in  my  possession.  Mr.  Image  was  a  lesser  light  of  the 
"eighteen-nineties." 

So  much  of  Mr.  Machen's  uncollected  work  has  been  pub- 
lished recently  that  little  of  importance  remains.  The  two 
items  in  the  present  volume  are  engaging  bits,  however,  one 
from  the  Evening  Standard  (London),  the  other  from  the 
London  Evening  News. 

Jack  and  Jill,  the  late  Clark  Russell's  amusing  "Dock 
Gate  Eclogue,"  was  contributed  to  a  British  annual  called  The 
Flag,  and  has  not  since  been  reprinted  save  in  my  own  maga- 
ine,  The  Wave. 

I  found  Mr.  Dell's  joyous  bit  of  Juvenilia  in  an  early 
number  of  the  Chicago  Evening  Post's  Literary  Review,  of 
which  at  the  time  Mr.  Dell  was  editor. 

[248] 


Mr.  Lang's  "Chortle"  appeared  in  some  English  maga- 
zine or  other  at  a  time  when,  as  the  poem  indicates,  two  of 
du  Boisgobey's  detective  novels  had  appeared,  at  the  same 
time,  to  delight  his  detective-story-loving  soul. 

Lafcadio  Hearn's  colorful  tale  is,  I  think,  a  translation 
from  the  Spanish  of  some  South  American  writer.  It  is  none 
the  less  good  Hearn.  I  am  indebted  to  the  Double  Dealer  for 
permission  to  reprint  it.     The  title  is  seductive — nace-paw? 

In  Wilbur  Underwood,  America  has  a  poet  of  fine  dis- 
tinction, as  profoundly  obscure  as  are  many  poets  of  fine  dis- 
tinction. He  has  published  two  volumes  through  an  English 
publisher,  Elkin  Mathews,  which  will  some  day  be  diligently 
sought  for  by  American  collectors.  As  a  translator,  I  believe 
him  to  be  the  equal  of  Arthur  Symons. 

The  little  Kanaka,  by  Joseph  Hergesheimer,  was  con- 
tributed to  the  Reviewer,  and  is  here  reproduced  by  the  per- 
mission of  the  author  and  the  editor. 

Lord  Dunsany's  poem,  A  Request,  seems  charming  to 
me.  I  scrap-booked  it  quickly  after  its  appearance  in  the 
Double  Dealer,  and  I  am  now  permitted  to  reprint  it  by  the 
courtesy  of  the  editors  of  that  journal. 

Neil  Lyons'  great  poem,  The  Drum,  is  believed  by  many 
to  be  the  finest  piece  of  poetry  inspired  by  the  great  war.  It 
is  an  undoubted  masterpiece.  It  appeared  in  an  English 
journal  over  the  pseudonym  of  "Edwin  Smallweed." 

The  London  That  Is  Far  Off,  by  Maurice  Hewlett,  is,  as 
noted,  a  review  of  a  volume  by  Arthur  Machen ;  but  it  seemed 
to  me  to  be  also  a  fine  supplement  to  the  Machen  work,  and 
so  I  preserved  it. 

Another  of  the  pleasant  works  of  "Anonymous"  is  Aucas- 
sin  and  Nicolette,  a  happy  verse  rendering  of  the  old  song- 
story.  It  has  been  a  newspaper  derelict  for  some  years ;  I  have 
been  unable  to  trace  its  authorship. 

Gustav  Meyrink  is  a  German  disciple  of  Poe,  still  living. 
His  mad  little  fantasy  was  sent  me  by  Herman  George 
Scheffauer,  who,  perhaps,  translated  it.  Anyway,  it  is  good. 

The  fine  tribute  to  Stevenson  by  Lionel  Johnson  was 
found  written  on  the  flyleaves  of  a  volume  formerly  in  the 

[249] 


possession  of  Johnson.  Investigation  fails  to  locate  it  in  any 
of  the  poet's  published  works. 

The  not-so-very  important  stanzas  of  William  Cullen 
Bryant  are  included  as  a  curiosity.  They  preceded  the  poet's 
great  poem,  Thanatopsis,  when  it  was  first  published  many 
years  ago.  Whether  Bryant  or  another  wrote  them,  no  one 
seems  to  know.  It  is  perhaps  obvious  why  they  were  with- 
drawn.    Anyway,  here  they  are. 

In  Emperor  of  Micamaca,  it  seems  to  me  that  Paul 
Eldridge,  who  will  some  day  be  collected,  has  done  a  very 
fine  thing.  He  sent  it  to  me  for  publication  in  The  Wave, 
and  that  remarkable  journal  exploded  before  I  could  use  it. 
I  am  glad  to  give  it  this  chance  at  permanence. 

Walt  Whitman's  fragments  were  discovered  by  Walter 
R.  Benjamin,  the  autograph  collector,  who  published  them 
in  his  little  magazine,  The  Collector. 

George  Moore's  amusing  letter  explains  itself.  It  was 
sent  to  a  London  newspaper.    I  have  used  it  in  The  Wave. 

Another  fine  tale,  I  believe,  is  Mr.  McCullough's  Pre- 
cursors, originally  given  me  for  The  Wave,  and  later  given 
by  me  to  the  Double  Dealer.  I  think  it  well  worthy  of  pres- 
ervation. 

Mr.  Aldington  contributed  his  amusing  Ballade  to  Michael 
Monahan's  Phoenix,  from  which  I  take  it. 

I  published  Mr.  Long's  distinguished  little  tale,  Antonia 
and  Dionigi,  in  The  Wave.  I  hope  some  day  a  publisher  will 
gather  all  of  Mr.  Long's  tales  into  a  handsome  volume.  They 
are  delightful  and  have  the  flavor  of  permanence. 

Mr.  Van  Vechten's  sketch  of  Edgar  Saltus  is  a  postscript 
to  his  long  essay,  now  in  one  of  the  popular  Van  Vechten 
volumes.     It  is  from  the  Double  Dealer. 

I  found  Julian  Street's  very  funny  letter  in  an  old  number 
of  the  Bookman,  and  am  sure  collectors  will  delight  in  it. 

The  Kipling  ballade  was  originally  written  on  a  flyleaf, 
perhaps  on  several  flyleaves,  of  a  large  album  of  Indian  views, 
sold  for  some  charity  or  other  in  India.  It  was  written  years 
ago,  and  it  does  not  appear  in  any  of  the  Kipling  volumes. 
The  album  figured  in  a  recent  sale  of  biblio-plunder,  and  the 

[250] 


poem  was  at  that  time  discovered.     I  have  used  it  in  The 
Wave. 

The  new  Sappho  songs  were  done  by  John  Myers  O'Hara, 
another  distinguished  and  too  obscure  American  poet.  They 
were  contributed  to  the  old  International. 

Explicit. 

V.  S. 


[251] 


(^Acknowledgement 


Copyright  of  most  of  the  contributions  to  this  volume  is 
held  by  the  authors  of  the  contributions  or  their  agents.  Fur- 
ther reproduction  without  special  permission  is  forbidden. 

Grateful  acknowledgement  is  made  to  all  whose  courteous 
permission  made  this  volume  possible.  Special  acknowledge- 
ment is  made  to  the  editors  of  the  following  publications: 
The  Double-Dealer,  The  Reviewer,  the  London  Weekly  Dis- 
patch, The  Philistine,  The  English  Review,  The  Phoenix,  the 
Chicago  Tribune,  the  Chicago  Evening  Post,  the  Evening 
Standard  (London),  The  Collector,  the  London  Evening 
News,  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  The  Wave;  also  to  the  follow- 
ing individuals:  Joseph  Hergesheimer,  Carl  Van  Vechten, 
Paul  Eldridge,  Wilbur  Underwood,  William  Griffith,  Henry 
Savage,  Edith  F.  Crane,  Blanche  A.  Crackanthorpe,  Arthur 
Machen,  Haniel  Long,  John  Myers  O'Hara,  Henry  Mc- 
Cullough. 


[253  1 


MCK'S  BOOK  STORE  I 
So.  Michlaan  Ave. 


I 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA 

820  8ST45E  C001 

ETCETERA  CHICAGO 


